


Husband On the Payroll

by Das_verlorene_Kind



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Band, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, trophy husband!Pete
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-26 12:56:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 97,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20390065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Das_verlorene_Kind/pseuds/Das_verlorene_Kind
Summary: Patrick Stumph, semi-sucessful voice actor and heir to his father's fortune, is struggling to remain relevant in the industry.Pete Wentz, scandalous model and twice divorced, is every dream come true in the form of bleached hair, bleached teeth, inked and sun-kissed skin. He promises exposure, press coverage, and fantastic sex. A hot trophy husband of his own, a smiling spouse to kiss goodnight, a pretty plus one for the award seasons - harmless LA fun, or so Patrick thinks when he agrees to marry Pete.But what is supposed to be a sensible marriage of convenience soon become everything but that...





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, everyone! A new fic from me! This time, a longer, chaptered one again. I've been writing this for a while but promised myself I'd finish some of my WIPs first. Well, I did that, so I am eager to present you my latest AU! 
> 
> As, always, all the gratitude to the amazing Snitches, for beta-reading as well as being endlessly patient whenever I babble to her about my fics. <3
> 
> Title kind of stolen from Morrissey. The quote in Pete's IG profile is from Mitski, who is wonderful and has a frightening amount of relatable songs for this fic.  
But, enough of that - enjoy reading!

It’s a warm evening in LA, the sky’s stars obstructed by clouds while earth’s stars and starlets are out and about in the living, pulsating city.

One of them, a tiny one with a faint glow, the kind that can only be seen when one squeezes their eyes a little, is Patrick Martin Vaughn Stump.

Patrick is a cliché, the walking, talking celebrity son, a novelty and, like all novelties, he has a very short date of expiry. Son of the famous musician David Stumph, he’s been raised into the circles of Hollywood where he has remained so far, demanded his own little corner of success. One that is steadily getting smaller.

The party is boring, the usual Hollywood bullshit his agent sends him to for rubbing elbows and making connections. So far, Patrick has done neither. Patrick is an actor, the lowest kind, one that can’t be sold on tabloid covers or talk shows. Voice actor and occasional producer, he prefers to stay behind the scene, to be the faceless voice, the masked puppeteer, heard but not seen. This stupid party isn’t for him.

Fragile, expensive glass are the red cups of the high society. Patrick is clutching his in his right hand, left one fiddling with his cardigan. It’s dark blue, cheap and from the men’s section of H&M, inevitably too long for Patrick’s arms but not worth to get it altered. It goes well with the jeans with rolled up pant legs, the Velcro shoes which are his most practical and least impressive pair of shoes, the shirt that has several tiny holes from his belt. Only Patrick’s hat stands out to the trained eye, an exclusive and limited edition Chicago Cubs baseball cap, not a custom-made fedora but an adequate hat nonetheless.

The clothes of the crowd around Patrick outclass him easily, but Patrick doesn't feel the need to impress. He doesn't need to, not in this way. People know his name, the ever so beloved and hated gift and legacy of his father, opening – or closing – doors ever since Patrick can remember. The Stumph family is not old money, not a name that has been carrying prestige for centuries, but anyone in the business can detect the scent of champagne, of sold-out stadiums, royalties and their big fat paychecks, of someone who’s climbed to the top and, unlike many others, never fallen down.

Patrick disposes of his half-empty glass by placing it on the tray of a nearby waiter, looks around to see if anyone worth talking to has shown up in the past five minutes. He pushes his glasses up, eyeing a crowd of newcomers, when someone to his left starts talking.

“Boring party, eh?”

Startled, Patrick turns around, only to almost stumble backwards when seemingly out of the blue, a man has materialized to his right. And not any man. Patrick knows this guy.

“Just a bunch of industry insiders sucking each others’ dicks,” the guy continues, voice calm and conversational despite the profanities, “don’t know why I pulled strings to get invited.”

A charming smile is flashed at Patrick, blinding white teeth, lush lips, freshly shaved tanned skin and twinkling eyes.

“Uh,” Patrick mumbles very intelligibly, “I, uhm. Yeah.” His mouth is dry, hands cold, tongue nervously licking over his lips as he tries to process who’s in front of him.

Pete Wentz is the LA poster boy, one of the big, shiny stars that overshadows the lights of all others. Bleach-blond hair manufactured by the most exclusive salon, sun-kissed skin inked with infamy, the tattered wife-beater with the witty slogan worth more than Patrick’s entire outfit. A million dollar smile showing off expensively bleached white teeth and the promise of easily attainable joie de vivre, a selling point that has landed Pete Wentz a position in one of the top model agencies, a smile that’s blended millions from magazine pages, billboards, pixels on the screen. Former soccer player turned model turned It-Boy, Pete Wentz has unknowingly been in Patrick’s life ever since Patrick was sixteen, stupid, and very, very horny.

Brief glimpses were caught even earlier, Patrick is sure. Pete’s face must’ve been in some sports magazine that Patrick flipped through backstage while his dad was warming up, bored and without today’s luxuries of an internet-connected phone, in some of his mom’s tabloids she so loved to read to escape the drama of her own failing marriage. A life-sized poster in some trashy teen magazine, Pete the scene King with his iconic black fringe, black eyeliner, tight pants and loose attitude towards his sexuality.

It’s not until Patrick is seventeen and alone in his room that the name Pete Wentz sticks to his mind, back when Pete’s first dick pics leaked and Patrick sat in his chair, hands shoved down his pants, desperately waiting for the jpeg to fully load to display the glorious nudity on screen. It’s not much more than a glimpse, and it’s an averagely sized cock at best, but it’s everything around it that makes it so much more special; Pete’s a model, after all, and he knows how to present himself, tilt his hips just right, pout his lips just enough, dark-brown pixels of his eyes staring into Patrick’s as if these photos were taken just for him. Sure, it’s an illusion, but Pete is paid to sell those, and he sells them well. Patrick jacks off to it until something even better came alone, further cementing the name and image of Pete Wentz in his brain.

The first sex tape hits the internet not long after; it must be before Pete married first because it’s not his ex-husband who’s in the viral video, fucking the shit out of a moaning, writhing, and whining Pete Wentz. He was still scene back then, a skinny little twink with slightly too-long hair, eyeliner getting smeared all over his face, the raw, beautiful moans and gasps pumping through Patrick’s headphones as he watches, hands in his pants again, coming right after Pete does.

The video is dark and blurry, far from today’s quality standards, but it’s more than enough material to get Patrick off whenever he’s alone in his expensive college dorm room.

Patrick swears he doesn't even care about this Wentz guy, he doesn't seek him out, it’s just that Wentz is very, very good at claiming the spotlight. Be it with sexual escapades, his dangerous affairs with important musicians all over the scene, the troubled first marriage, or simply his actual work as a professional model, advertising cologne, clothes, and everything else to a miffed Patrick and an applauding crowd of his fans, friends, and enemies.

It’s not until the first marriage ends in tragedy that Pete leaves another impression on Patrick and no doubt lots of others; the gruesome leaked police photos of a battered and bruised Pete flood the media, sparking a brief conversation about domestic violence before the dark and depressing topic and photos are buried under more glamorous news and speculations about their divorce. Patrick still hears the music of Pete’s ex-husband on the radio sometimes.

At some point after, Pete changed his image, got rid of the outdated scene kid look, and came back as short-haired, ripped, and ready to take on the world again. Still playing up the underlying stream of sensual, seductive sexuality, this time used for direct profit rather than internet infamy – oh, Patrick has hated himself but bought the issue of Men’s Health with naked Pete Wentz anyway, and he’s stashed it next to the issue of Loverboy featuring Pete not only decked out in leather on the cover, but also stark naked on the inside. And so what if he’s bookmarked some of the websites archiving Pete’s videos, so what if he’s saved the nudes into a folder hidden somewhere deep inside his laptop.

The last news Patrick is aware of are that Pete is going through a second divorce, splitting up from his rich Wall Street husband with as much fanfare as the first time. There’s mud slinging, accusations, there’s a custody battle over a fucking dog, it’s all the cliches of a Hollywood love gone ugly, topped with the leak of yet another sex tape that’s been immediately added to Patrick’s bookmarked pages. This time, within the marital bounds, just Pete and his now ex-husband, the dirty HD dream come true; depending on which source, either Pete’s ex leaked it out of spite, or Pete himself did, intending to cash in on the victim status and the viral nature of such sex tapes. All Patrick cares for is that his guilty conscience over the voyeuristic act of watching hot, wantonly moaning Pete Wentz getting pounded hard in three different positions is in no proportion to the intensity of the orgasms the tape gave and still gives him. The Wall Street ex looks a little bit like Patrick, he’s chubby, pale, and even balder, and it doesn’t take much for Patrick to imagine it’s him who’s touching, sucking, fucking Pete on screen.

Is it wrong to watch? All these questions, Patrick had shoved them to the very back of his head, and he never expected to have to deal with them because Pete Wentz isn’t real to him, he’s a concept, someone from a different world so close and yet out of reach.

Except said Pete Wentz is now standing to his right, making casual small talk laced with provocative looks from dark eyes under dark lashes, his hand brushing Patrick’s seemingly by accident as he raises it to rake it through his meticulously styled and colored hair. Pete is shorter than he thought, just a couple inches taller than Patrick, but with his stunning looks and captivating charisma, he more than makes up for it.

“You don’t seem too enchanted by the crowd either,” Pete goes on smoothly, glossing over Patrick’s acute inability to be eloquent or even coherent, “first time seeing Hollywood’s big league? Nothing to write home about, are they?”

Further confused, Patrick furrows his brows, finally finds his ability to string words together. “Do you know who I am?”

“Who you are?” Pete cocks his head, and he sounds genuinely surprised. “I dunno, you look like you’re someone’s assistant. Cheap clothes, uncomfortable posture, you’re merely obligated to be here, aren’t you?” Patrick has to hand it to him, Pete’s observations are accurate; he’s just drawing the wrong conclusions. “I do approve of spending your budget on the Chicago Cubs merch. Awesome statement piece.”

No trace of irony, and judging from what Patrick has seen of Pete in the B-movies that invite him for small roles sometimes, he’s not that great an actor; no way he could pretend. Pete simply doesn't recognize him. Not that Patrick is often recognized by his looks necessarily, but it seems Pete isn’t aware of the Stumph name he’s branded with either.

“Thanks,” Patrick mumbles as he nervously tugs at his baseball cap. So far, it’s semi-successful in hiding his ongoing baldness despite being in his early thirties. He’s not without jealousy when he thinks of Pete’s full and fabulous hair, and not without arousal when he thinks about running a hand through the bleached strands himself, like he’s had so often in his late-night fap fantasies.

Pete laughs, no doubt relishing in the want that vibrates from every fiber in Patrick’s being. “You’re cute,” he says amused, doesn’t even try to be subtle when he adds, “not to mention, you look like you got a big dick. Wouldn’t you like to prove me right on that?”

Wow, Pete sure isn’t wasting time. Patrick hasn’t thought a supermodel to be that easy. Then again, it’s kind of a relief to just cut to the chase and stop pretending Patrick wasn’t ready to throw Pete against the next available surface and bang him the moment he set eyes on him.

Maybe, he should explain who he is, but Patrick decides the cloak of anonymity is too comfortable.

“Yeah,” Patrick hears himself say, “sure, I would.”

  
  


Pete hails them a cab, while Patrick sends a quick message to his driver that he won’t need to be picked up tonight. They’re going to Pete’s hotel, of course they are, and of course the Four Seasons in Beverly Hills is Pete’s chosen residence.

“Why did you hit on me,” Patrick mumbles between two heated kisses as they ride up the elevator, “just ‘cause I’m a nobody? An easy lay for you?”

“You _ are _ an easy lay,” Pete says with a shit-eating grin, his hand cupping Patrick’s crotch to underline his point. “But I took you with me ‘cause you’re cute. Just my type.”

They kiss again, Pete’s hand a tormenting tease through the thick denim, making Patrick’s dick yearn for the loss of clothes.

Pete is so eager, grinding up against him, and they almost fall out of the elevator, with Pete stumbling and almost tripping if Patrick hadn’t still been holding on to him. He gets a giggle and apologetic kiss for his heroic safe, wondering if maybe, Pete likes to play the damsel in distress. The thought leads to nothing, because Pete has managed to get out his key card, unlock his hotel room, and a moment later, he has dragged Patrick to the bed. Pete hits the mattress with another giggle, Patrick’s weight pinning him down on his back, Patrick’s thighs bracketing Pete’s hips and keeping him in place. They haven’t even taken off any clothes and Patrick is already rock-hard.

Fuck, he can’t help it, Pete is just so stunning. He’s every wet dream come true in form of a lithe body, ink and sun-kissed golden skin, a beautiful face and the lust hiding in the curve of his smirk, oh, Pete is the very personification of the diamond that’s etched onto his left upper arm. A decade of sexual longings and late-night pretended lovemaking when Patrick had nothing but his hand and his imagination stares back at him through the captivating copper eyes of this very poster boy for all-American attractiveness and scandals, and he’s here, right between Patrick’s legs, taking his shirt off for him in one slow, sensual movement.

That throws Patrick out of his trance, reminds him he should do the same. Or at least, free his dick. By the time he has taken off his pants, Pete is already naked, sitting cross-legged on the luxurious bed, eyeing Patrick up like he’s an expensive bottle of wine that Pete’s thinking about buying. Without the possibility of at least faked respect towards his name and what it means – money and prestige – Patrick feels a lot more vulnerable.

“You sure you like this?” Patrick clutches the hem of his shirt, unsure of himself. “A balding little fatty?”

“I like the fatties,” Pete says without a hint of malice. “Told you, you’re just my type. Soft, adorable, and hey, I guess you pass as a ginger. If I wanted a dark-haired bodybuilder type, I’d just jerk off looking into a mirror.”

Patrick rolls his eyes, but he undresses anyway. Some of Pete’s (rumored) rich flings and his latest ex-husband did indeed look a little like Patrick. Then again, these people did have tons of money, which Pete currently assumes Patrick has not.

In the end, Patrick decides it’s a once in a lifetime opportunity. When will he ever find another gorgeous gay model willing to sleep with him, without even the promise of being taken to an expensive restaurant first? So what if Pete considers him an easy and hassle-free lay, Patrick won’t complain.

Pete leans back, arms over his head, loose and relaxed, like he’s waiting for Patrick to take the lead. People like Pete Wentz get what they want, and Patrick doubts Pete’s ever had to work hard for an orgasm. With looks like these, men must be lining up to get a chance at getting Pete off; Patrick knows, because he’s usually at the end of that line. It’s not like he can’t get laid, he’s not an eyesore and he does have faith in his charmingly big dick, but in the hierarchy of attractive gay men, Patrick is right at the bottom. Too small, too chubby, too little hair on his head and body, someone who is filling no one’s niche.

If that’s what Pete wants, fine, Patrick will go along with the spoiled brat act, it’s a small price to pay to fuck a supermodel slash sex fantasy he’s had since his early adolescence.

“Pretty,” Patrick hears himself whisper against the curve of Pete’s throat, “god, you’re so fucking beautiful.”

Pete laughs a low, ugly laugh, turns his head to the right, bats his lashes at Patrick. “What did you say?” He singsongs, all tempting provocation, “mmm, I’d like to hear that again...”

It feels like an act, like a pose he strikes for a shoot, filed away and used only for when Pete is in bed with a fool willing to eat up all the honey-sweet words. And Patrick finds himself falling for it in every single way. “Said you’re pretty,” he groans, tugs at Pete’s earlobe, “fuck, look at you, Pete. So pretty for me.”

Patrick’s role is about as stilted and as much as a lie as Pete’s; surely, Pete has spent enough time looking at himself to know he’s gorgeous, surely, Pete knows his prettiness is not just for some loser like Patrick to enjoy. But the cliches seem to work on Pete nonetheless, because he smiles his million dollar smile again, flashes big white teeth and dirty intentions at Patrick, who forgoes further words in favor of kisses. Pete’s body is a buffet, and Patrick doesn’t know where to start first. He greedily licks over Pete's nipples (slightly sad he didn’t get to fuck Pete in his scene king days, back when he was pierced seemingly everywhere), sucks on them until they’re hard and sensitive.

Black thorns, golden skin, hard muscles. Not a single hair on Pete’s chest, pits, arms, legs, anywhere; he is a living, breathing Malibu Ken, a beautiful doll, save for the growing erection between his waxed legs. Patrick flips him over on all fours, rakes his nails over the hard muscles and scarred tattoo on Pete’s back.

Pete’s ass is exquisite, round and firm from hours upon hours spent at the gym, each and every hair removed to leave only smooth, delicate skin. Bleached hair, bleached teeth, and a bleached asshole to that to complete LA’s Holy Trinity of chemical whitening. Artificial or not, it still works on Patrick, who finds himself painfully hard, and salivating. God, no, he can’t be the guy who ate Pete Wentz’s ass the first (and most likely, only) time they fucked, there’s some dignity Patrick would like to hold on to. Lord knows where and with whom that ass has been; and Patrick remembers the pictures, back from when his scene sex tape leaked, the hand of some now-forgotten former A-list celebrity spreading Pete’s cheeks to show off the trail of cum leaking from his fucked-out hole.

Instead, he leans forward, pushes two fingers into Pete’s eager mouth, rubs the spit-wet pads over Pete’s entrance in a teasing, testing manner until a high-pitched whine from Pete announces his desperate wishes for more. It’s the same needy whine Patrick has heard coming from his headphones – or speakers, if he was sure of absolute solitude – dozens of times when he watched Pete’s sex tapes. Hearing them for real sends an all-new rush of pleasure and adrenaline through his body.

Patrick crosses his fingers, sinks them into Pete with one quick thrust. The reward is a deep groan as Pete stills for a moment, trying to adjust. It doesn’t take him long, and it doesn’t take Patrick long until he has Pete Wentz, Pete goddamn Wentz, writhing beneath him as Patrick rubs repeatedly over his prostate.

Head turned to the right so he can look up at Patrick, send him those pleading looks, Pete looks thoroughly desperate. He still hasn’t touched his cock, and if he thinks Patrick’s gonna make it that easy for him, he’s wrong. Patrick intends to have his fun, and if Pete doesn’t want to lift a finger for his own orgasm, it’s gonna happen at Patrick’s pace.

“Two’s enough,” Pete gasps as he arches his back, “wanna – wanna be tight for you.”

Part of Patrick wants to take Pete’s word and just push his cock into him, raw, watch Pete’s attitude melt away as he struggles with Patrick’s dick, the drying spit promising to leave him sore for days. Wouldn’t that be a nice little parting gift?

“Please,” Pete whimpers, shuddering again when Patrick withdraws his fingers, “come on, fuck me.” It sounds exactly like when Pete has begged on camera, Patrick’s heard it dozens of times, imagined himself to be the mostly out of frame, soon-to-be-second-ex husband who got to hear those words for real.

Now it’s indeed real, and it would be so easy to just do that.

Patrick finds himself to be a better man as he turns to the nightstand, almost knocking over the phone as he hastily grabs the almost forgotten lube. “Got any condoms?” He asks through gritted teeth, his impatience difficult to keep at bay.

“Just fuck me,” Pete moans, underlining his demands by arching his back again, presenting his tight little bleached hole and the hard, untouched cock between his legs. He’s practically begging Patrick to fuck him bareback, something Patrick knows Pete’s into from dozens of dirty pictures and all the incriminating videos. Patrick almost hates himself for stumbling out of bed to fumble for the wallet in his pants, his shaking hands finally locating the silver foil tucked in between his member card for the Los Angeles Country Club and his American Express. Though fucking Pete is a memory that’s worth a lot, it’s not worth any STD that Pete might have contracted thanks to an attitude as lax as this.

Dick all wrapped and slicked up with some hastily applied lube, Patrick handles Pete to lay half on his right side, one leg between Patrick’s, the other thrown over Patrick’s thigh. He wants to see Pete’s face, wants to watch as Pete takes his cock, wants to relish in every single moment of shared pleasure. The second ex, he’s fucked Pete face down and on all fours, Patrick knows because he’s watched, has heard Pete’s muffled moans over the “_take it, babyboy, take my fucking cock_” coming from his then-husband.

Two fingers and the bare minimum of lube leave Pete tight indeed, a vice-like grip around Patrick’s cock as he pushes into him; halfway through, Pete gasps, eyes wide as he squirms under Patrick’s hands. Patrick stills, rubs a soothing circle over Pete’s sharp hip bone as he waits for him to adjust.

“You good?” Patrick asks, only to receive a hurried nod.

“I’ve – I’ve taken more,” Pete pants in a defiant voice. “I’m good. Go on.”

Patrick bottoms out without further issue, takes a moment to relish in the fact that he’s balls deep inside of Pete Wentz, before he starts to move. Each thrust is slow and deliberate at first, every moment a piece of heaven, a dream come true in the shape of this stunning peroxide prince underneath him.

Pete is loud, he’s groaning and whining and moaning, mumbles an occasional “harder” or “faster” while his half-lidded eyes stare at Patrick like he’s the only thing in the world that matters. His dick is still untouched, like he’s waiting for Patrick to finally get a clue; God, Pete’s a spoiled little bottom, but he’s got the looks to get away with it. And then, Pete lifts his leg a little higher, rests it against Patrick’s shoulder, allows him to slide in even deeper. Patrick mentally adds flexibility to the endless list of factors that make Pete Wentz a very fuckable guy.

The slight change of position must’ve also changed the angle just right, because Pete is almost screaming now as Patrick’s cock hits his prostate each time he slams into Pete, harder and faster now, his own orgasm tantalizingly close.

“Let me come,” Pete groans breathlessly, oh, he’s a sweaty, stunning mess by now, “c’mon, I’m so close, let me come…!”

Gritting his teeth, Patrick reaches for Pete’s dick; he’s not really liking the bratty bottom act and deep down, he kind of hoped Pete would just come untouched, like he did in one of the clips in his second sex tape – fuck, Patrick has jerked off to this one scene alone more times than he’d like to admit – but, he’s not an egotistical guy, and he won’t let Pete Wentz of all people think Patrick is a selfish top and bad lay.

Despite Pete being loud in bed, he’s not a screamer; when he comes, it’s with his eyes squeezed shut and his pretty lips opened slightly, just enough to let a small, breathless little “oh” escape the back of his throat. It’s the hottest thing Patrick has ever heard, and having Pete come all over his very own hand, feel him clench down around his very own cock, that’s infinitely better than every fantasy of him Patrick’s ever had.

After he’s come, Pete is less noisy. He still looks at Patrick with those beautiful eyes, fuck-flushed face and mouth agape, as he lowers his leg over Patrick’s thigh again. Patrick digs his hand into the firm curve of Pete’s ass cheek, leaves five red trails on the impeccable, hairless skin as he slams into Pete with all his might one last time as he comes, hard and intense.

They’re a mess of tangled legs, tousled hair, and sweaty skin. Patrick pulls out slowly, hands still on Pete’s ass, keeps it spread open to watch Pete slowly closing up again. Pete says nothing, but he grins at Patrick, head rested on his arms now, knowing Patrick is enjoying the post-coital view. Pete’s thoroughly fucked-out, drying white stains of semen on his smooth chest, and it’s really not fair how goddamn good-looking he still is.

This is the part Patrick’s never really seen, the point where the camera stops and pictures aren’t being taken anymore. It’s surprisingly subdued with very little words involved, they’re just cleaning up a little before Patrick slides into one of the bathrobes, while Pete stays naked.

“Would you like to cuddle?” Pete asks with a smile; as if anyone were to ever decline the request. They’re tucked up in bed together, Pete’s head on Patrick’s chest, when Pete speaks up again. “Y’know, there’s something familiar about you,” he says with a frown as he stares at Patrick’s face, “something in your voice… Are you a radio host, perhaps? I can’t put my finger on it…”

“It’s nothing,” Patrick mumbles, because it really is nothing, right? A coincidence. A compliment that’s meant to flatter him. No way Pete means it, no way he really recognizes a semi-obscure voice actor no matter how many Tim Burton-tattoos he has.

Pete hums in agreement, doesn’t speak up again. Patrick isn’t sure if Pete falls asleep as well, but Patrick sure does, Pete’s warm, lithe body tucked into his arms as dreamless slumber claims him.

  
  


Next morning, Patrick needs a moment to orientate himself, and realize what happened last night. Pete, sitting next to him, already awake, is a lot less awkward about it, he just puts his phone down, tells Patrick that he’s going to shower, and that Patrick could order some room service if he wants.

“I have some class,” Pete says and sticks his tongue out at Patrick, “can’t throw you out without some proper manners and food first.” Then, he’s off to the bathroom, and with a groan, Patrick reaches for the phone on the nightstand.  


By the time Pete comes out of the shower, breakfast has arrived; a white-clothed tray carrying several dishes hidden underneath silver and framed by matching cutlery, an array of tea, freshly-pressed juices, water, coffee, and an ice bucket carrying the green-golden bottle of the hotel’s most exclusive champagne.

Pete stops, eyes Patrick, the breakfast, then Patrick again. “What in the world did you order?” Pete stammers, halfway between anxious and annoyed.

“Only the finest champagne,” Patrick says with as much nonchalance as he can muster, “I felt like celebrating. Would you care for a flute?”

Pete stares at him, still torn between anger and his usual act of the spoiled brat. “Look, Patrick, I know this must be exciting for you, and you probably don’t often stay in places like these, but did you have to order the most expensive items on the menu?”

“It’s alright. I paid for it.”

It’s amusing to see Pete cycle through different emotions, before he settles on coyness. “Oh, you didn’t have to,” Pete coos, voice now velvet-smooth and free of any anger. “Silly boy, spending so much money on me… But that’s what? Half your paycheck? I’m flattered, but I can’t accept it knowing you’d have to like, what, eat instant ramen for the next three months? I like to indulge, but I hate having a guilty conscience. Gives me wrinkles. I’ll just put it on my bill.”

That is an almost sweet gesture, a semi-excuse that at least, Pete only accepts to get showered in lavish gifts by people he assumes can afford it. Cynicism has apparently not yet left him an empty corpse driven only by narcissism and other people’s black credit cards.

“No, you won’t.” Patrick takes another sip of champagne.

Pete furrows his perfectly shaped brows; denial sure must be something he’s not used to. “But I want to,” he says, pretty lips in a pout, a well-rehearsed play to get whatever he wants. And usually, people like Pete Wentz get exactly that, so Patrick can’t deny a tiny bit of self-righteous smugness when he shakes his head.

“You won’t,” he repeats slowly, “you can’t. The receptionist told me so. You’re behind on your bills. And not only in this establishment. I was friendly but firmly told you weren’t given any more extensions for extravagances.”

“They – they told you?” For a moment, panic rules Pete’s face, curves an ugly frown into his mouth and worried wrinkles into his forehead. It’s gone a moment later, traded for the million dollar smile again, laced with a demure apology. “It’s all Jeremy’s fault. My ex, he’s, well, he’s supposed to pay my bills, he just… He’s a bit complicated. Doesn’t matter. I’ll deal with it, so you really don’t need to try and impress me with money you don’t have.”

What is it with Pete’s insistence? Patrick downs another gulp of champagne while he eyes the guy, wonders if Pete is just terribly bad with money, or if he knows that once poor Patrick is gone, a rich Jeremy or another wealthy guy, probably with roman numerals adorning their prestigious name, will foot the bill. It might be a combination of both.

It also might be time to confess to Pete, lest his next one-night stand has to pay for an expensive round of wrinkle treatment. Patrick puts down the glass of champagne on the pristine white table-cloth, clears his throat. “I can afford it. I already paid for it. In fact, I took the liberty to settle the entire open bill. You’re debt-free now, in this hotel at least.”

Is Patrick a fool for flashing his money and paying the most he’s ever paid for a one-night stand? He thinks he might be, but then again, how often does one get to fuck the living, breathing, embodiment of a wet dream of their formative years? If dozens of others did it, why can’t he? If he’s done impressing Pete with the length and stamina of his dick, what else is there to impress but the depth and stamina of his bank account?

It might be worth it just to see the ever so cool Pete Wentz lose said cool again as he stares at Patrick with wide brown eyes, surprised and confused.

“Who the hell are you?!”

“Patrick. Patrick Martin Vaughn Stumph.”

Awkward silence settles between them as Pete stares at him, no doubt mentally going through the VIP list of the young, hip, and beautiful in Hollywood only to find Patrick’s name might not be on there. Just as he wants to explain, Pete snaps his fingers, hurries to say: “Wait. Wait! No way, you’re the voice of Victor! From Burton’s Corpse Bride! Holy shit! I _ knew _ you sounded familiar!”

Of all possible reactions, this isn’t what Patrick expected at all. His mind is a blank as he stares at Pete, dumbfounded. “Sure. Sure, that was me,” he stutters as he accidentally knocks over the champagne flute, spills ivory over stark-white tablecloth and his denim jeans. “I – wow, uhm. Not many people recognize me…”

Not many people recognize him for that, for achievements other than being his father’s son, but Patrick doesn't get to explain; Pete jumps next to him onto the bed, with eager eyes and excitement in his expression.

“I fucking love that movie,” Pete exclaims, points to the Nightmare Before Christmas sleeve on his right arm, “big Tim Burton fan. So, you worked with him? What’s he like? Must’ve been amazing. You gotta tell me everything! How the hell did you get to meet him?!”

Patrick makes a futile attempt to dry off his jeans with a napkin. “My dad worked with Danny Elfman. I’ve known Tim ever since.”

“Tim!” Pete claps his hands with sheer joy. “You’re on fucking first name basis with Tim fucking Burton?!”

Patrick laughs awkwardly, like he always does when he doesn’t know what to say. His voice might be golden, but without someone else spinning pretty words and tales for him to tell, it’s just shiny nothingness. “It’s just work. I’m not that glamorous.”

It seems Pete pays no attention to Patrick’s attempts at humbleness as he keeps on babbling about Burton’s movies, only stopping once in a while to gulp down some food. Pete sticks mostly to the wholegrain bread, the array of fresh fruits, and he takes about three carefully measured sips of the expensive champagne. Patrick eats the rest of the food, nods in appropriate intervals, takes another close look at Pete’s Nightmare Before Christmas sleeve (like he hasn’t mapped out Pete’s naked body with his tongue just a few hours earlier) and is relieved that the awkwardness of their situation is covered up by Pete’s talkativeness.

The constant chatter only stops when Pete sits on the floor between Patrick’s legs, lips busy with sucking him off. God, he’s fucking good at it, no doubt thanks to quite a bit of experience. Patrick has told him to touch himself and this time, Pete works a little more for his own orgasm, hands shoved down his expensive designer underwear as he continues to deep-throat Patrick’s aching dick.

Patrick comes harder than he ever has from a simple blowjob. Pete swallows every bit of it, like the stupid, careless blonde he is, and he’s lucky Patrick knows he’s clean because unlike Pete, he’s careful whom he fucks without a condom.

Afterwards, Pete wipes over his mouth, looks at Patrick with an expectant smile. The sticky stains on his underwear suggest he must’ve come at some point, which sends another surge of satisfaction up Patrick’s spine, makes his dick twitch with pride. Pete Wentz got off sucking his cock, that’s another one added to the spank bank material that will last him for the next weeks, if not months.

But the magic of the moment is wearing off, and Pete still on his knees like he’s waiting to be paid becomes less enticing with every passing second. Especially now that Pete knows who Patrick is, and what money must be in his bank accounts and trusts.

“You can get up now,” Patrick mumbles, and he bites back a comment about Pete needing to be careful, needing to not be so fucking reckless and just screw strangers without protection. It would feel hypocritical, given that Patrick knows he could still taste himself in Pete’s mouth.

Pete averts his eyes, gets up, stumbles and almost falls into Patrick’s lap. “Shouldn’t have drunk the champagne,” he giggles as he straightens himself again, “’s gone to my head already. Bad Petey.”

The cutesie act doesn't work too well for Pete, Patrick decides. How old must Pete be now, in his early thirties as well? Definitely not a twink-ish little twenty-something anymore. It’s stale and desperate and while it might convince his older lovers, it leaves a sour taste in Patrick’s mouth. He doesn't respond, just gathers his belongings, texts his driver to come pick him up, jams his Cubs cap back over his tousled hair, and braces himself for his least favorite part of casual hookups – the painfully awkward good-bye.

Thankfully, Pete is once more much smoother than him. “Let me see you out,” Pete proposes, “I wanted to hit the gym anyway.”

Silence with Pete isn’t that bad, and Patrick relaxes as they take the elevator together. Pete even walks him out, holds his hand, gives him a long, passionate kiss. “We should see each other again sometimes. We made a good team in bed,” Pete says afterwards, not even bothering to keep his voice low despite the public setting. “And you gotta tell me more about your work!”

“Sure,” Patrick answers without being convinced at all. He’s heard these phrases before, and he hates them as much as the false promises of a next time that’s never going to happen. Pete kisses him again, one last almost too-long kiss, then he heads back to the hotel, and Patrick sighs, heads towards the car with his waiting driver.

“Morning, Joe,” he greets the grinning man, “stop being smug about it. I can land a fling with a hot guy once in a while too.”

“I’m not saying anything.” Joe is still grinning as he opens the door for Patrick. “Had fun last night? You just made out like horny teens and he blew you a kiss when you had already turned around, what magic did your dick work on him?”

Patrick scoffs while Joe gets into the car as well. “You’re my employee, you shouldn’t speculate about my genitalia.”

It’s an empty threat, and they both know it; they also both know that Patrick prefers their loose and friendly tone with each other over cold professionalism. Joe is almost more of a friend, except Patrick pays him.

They drive off, Joe giving Patrick the updates on his estate – the maid did her twice-a-week cleaning round, groceries got delivered, no unannounced (or announced) visitors, Marie and their baby girl are fine – while Patrick fiddles with his phone, makes a note to call back his agent, read the script that’s been on his desk for a week now, checks emails he won’t answer anytime soon. For a moment, he contemplates to check in on Pete’s Instagram, but decides against it. He feels almost relieved he’s back in the real world where people have hair on their chest and stretch marks on their untrained bodies and worry about stuff like their families or real jobs.

Pete Wentz is all shiny plastic, a blurry dream, a delicious treat that has no substance and will leave one hungry no matter how much they consume. It wouldn’t come as a surprise to Patrick if he learned Pete simply vanishes into thin air the moment everyone’s eyes stop looking at him.

It was a fun little trip into the Wonderland of LA, but Patrick is sure he will never see the guy again.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... and of course, Patrick could not be more wrong. They will meet again - check out the next chapter to see how that goes...!  
(and this time, I will try my best to have a somewhat consistent update schedule, so: see you next week for that next chapter! ;)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, everyone! You'll see what the boys are up to this week...
> 
> Thanks to Snitches for being her wonderful and helpful self! 
> 
> Again, the quote on Pete's IG is from Mitski! The song is called "Remember My Name" and you should just go and listen to all of her music. Uh. Anyways. Enjoy the chapter!  
All real life places and people and logos such obviously paid me no money, and are just used as a creative means to tell a story.

“So, you’re dating _ the _Pete Wentz?”

Patrick makes an annoyed grimace at the phone, as if his manager could actually see him. “For the last time,” he says through gritted teeth, “I am _ not _ dating Pete Wentz.”

Patrick is on the phone with Bob, who, instead of telling him about a job offer or dropping a script on him like a manager is supposed to do, is asking him about outrageous rumors.

“Then what about those photos of you two kissing in front of his hotel like two lovebirds?”

“It was just a one-night stand,” Patrick tries to explain with all the patience he can muster. He has already given this statement to Ryan, his publicist (“no, I don’t have photos, and no, I won’t ask him to tag me on Twitter”), Joe who’s inexplicably up to date with gossip, and Travie, one of the few people who care about Patrick’s private life for something other than monetary reasons.

“Sure,” Bob says in a manner that suggests he doesn't believe a single word, “you just happen to pose yourself with one of the hottest and currently rather scandalous models in LA in front of the fucking Four Seasons and kiss like you believe no one would notice, especially not the paps parking there 24/7 to get some celebrity gossip.”

Well, the way his manager is phrasing it makes the whole ordeal sound less convincing. “I didn’t plan it, I swear,” Patrick says lamely, “and I am not dating Pete.”

He can hear Bob sigh on the other end of the line. “I’m your manager, Patrick. I need to know this shit not because I am particularly interested in whoever you screw around with, but because you pay me a huge sum of money to deal with the public who very much do care. Stop sabotaging yourself, we talked about this. And next time, get a fucking selfie or whatever for Ryan, the kid is desperate to keep your social media on track for the algorithms.”

Patrick pushes up his glasses, and takes a deep breath. “Can you stop telling me about this ridiculous talk of algorithms and optimized search results or whatever? I already hear enough about that from Ryan, and I pay him to not have to deal with this in the first place.”

Bob sighs again, but he drops the topic. Patrick still has the lingering fear he hasn’t heard the last of it.

Next time his phone rings, he has no one else but Pete Wentz himself on the line.

“How’d you get my number?” Patrick asks right after Pete has introduced himself.

“Funny thing,” Patrick can hear the grin in Pete’s voice, “I called around until I got to your social media manager, and he was very eager to give me your number. He said well, since we’re dating...”

Patrick curses internally, and makes a mental note to yell at Ryan for handing out his professional work number to very unprofessionally behaving models and wannabe-starlets. “I wonder why he thought that. Did you walk me out and kiss me goodbye with the intention of letting the whole world know we fucked?”

Despite the anger and accusations thrown at him, Pete only giggles. The giggling is a very bad and annoying habit that Patrick is already growing tired of. “Maybe I did,” he confesses without a hint of guilt in his voice, “but I thought you were in on it. Didn’t you want to show off the pretty boy you spent the night with?”

“No,” Patrick grumbles, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Unlike you, I don’t want the whole world to speculate about my love life or if we’re dating.”

“We should, you know. Date.” Pete sounds as smooth and casual as if he talked about the weather.

“Excuse me?!” Patrick is two seconds away from hanging up, although he suspects Pete won’t leave him alone that easily. “First off, I don’t know where that idea came from. Secondly, is that how you ask someone out? On the phone? Like you’re ordering fucking pizza?”

“Well, you _ are _ almost as delicious as pizza,” Pete coos, seemingly not offended at all. “Take me out, and we can have a chance to talk about it in person. How about Mélisse?”

Patrick is struggling between hurt pride and the possibility of a date with an extremely hot guy. On the one hand, it’s humiliating to be asked out like this, over the phone, with Pete strongly hinting Patrick should not only take him on a date but also pay for it, of course. On the other hand, Pete might be up for hooking up again and Patrick finds it very hard to say no to that, no matter the embarrassment he is currently feeling.

Is Patrick really that desperate, that easy? Apparently, he is, because he finds himself saying: “Fine. I’ll get us a table at Mélisse. I’ll text you the details,” because damn it, he too can be cool and smooth. When he hangs up, he’s not sure whether to feel proud, or ashamed.

When the day comes, Patrick has conveniently neglected to tell anyone about his upcoming date. He neither wants his possible failure to be commemorated on the internet, nor annoy his friends – fine, only Joe and Travie, but still – with his still non-existent love life. Patrick is decked out in a dark blue two piece suit (one of the few suits he had the patience and motivation to get tailor-made), and a matching tailor-made fedora. His black dress shoes, only worn on special occasions like award ceremonies or dating models, are uncomfortable and they hurt his feet already. Patrick has infinite respect for all the women around him wearing high heels.

The scotch in his glass is half-emptied already. The maître d’hotel has informed him he can’t be seated until the whole party is present, so Patrick sits at the bar, sipping expensive Lagavulin and feeling increasingly foolish. Pete is ten minutes late already. Another five, and they’ll lose the table.

Just as Patrick is about to down the remaining drink in one big gulp and sneak out to never return to this restaurant ever again, he catches sight of the missing half of their little party. The second Pete enters, everything around him seems to brighten up; he’s dressed in simple but elegant black and white, and somehow, it looks hip and fresh despite the conservative color scheme. Maybe it’s the black satin lapel blazer, maybe it’s the bleached hair, maybe, it’s just Pete’s aura. Even the Mélisse’s snobby maître treats Pete with a tiny bit less French arrogance. Is that just what life as a beautiful person is like?

They’re seated at one of the better tables. Probably because it looks good to have someone as good-looking as Pete be seen around here. Patrick feels outclassed and unworthy sitting opposite of him. It’s one thing to fuck in a hotel room and have a little goodbye kiss on crowded streets, but an entirely different thing to be out in a public space for an obviously not very platonic date with a man so far out his league, Patrick swears people around them are either silently laughing or assuming he overpaid for an exclusive escort.

Pete seems to have no such worries. As a model, he must be used to being well-dressed and being the center of attention, and the way he leans into his seat, head slightly tilted to the right, fingers playing with the stem of his white wine glass in an almost innocuous yet clearly suggestive manner – it’s like he’s already posing to be on the cover of the next Men’s Health.

The Table d’hôte is kept entirely in French; Pete takes one passing look at it, then smiles at Patrick. “You order for us. I have no idea what any of this means.” Patrick doesn’t know why admitting this level of ignorance still can’t diminish Pete’s charm. A meaner part of him wonders if models are even allowed to eat all this food, but a buff guy like Pete can probably make up for it with some extensive training sessions at the high-class gym. At least, Pete seems mildly impressed at Patrick’s French.

“So,” Pete starts lightheartedly, fingers still playing with the wine glass, “nice to meet you again, Mr. Stump.”

“I think it’s safe to assume we are on first name terms,” Patrick says, ignoring the way his cock twitches when Pete calls him _ Mister _ and smiles at him with semi-dirty intentions.

“Nice to meet you again, _ Patrick_,” Pete corrects himself, dragging out Patrick’s name like it’s something delicious. Speaking of, the sommelier appears to Pete’s right, inquiring in soft-spoken French which wine menu they desire to match their food.

No answer from Pete, who just keeps looking at Patrick. The sommelier looks slightly irritated. Patrick clears his throat, remembers that Pete can’t speak French; still, it’s a bit rude to just ignore the wait staff. He waves a hand at the sommelier – only now does Pete bother to acknowledge the wine waiter by turning to him and smiling his usual smile – and tells him they’ll have the wine recommended with their chosen meal.

“Why did you want me to ask you out?” Patrick decides to skip the polite small talk. “For the free food? Or do you have another hotel bill to settle?”

Pete pouts, and Patrick tries not to think about what that mouth did to his dick last time they met. “You’re the one who wanted to talk about dating in person.”

“Where is all this date talk coming from?” Patrick tries to keep his voice low, but he’s still annoyed. “We just fucked.”

“Bad language.” Pete wags a finger, like he’s scolding a schoolboy for swearing. “Not appropriate for a chic restaurant like this.”

A fuck off is on the tip of Patrick’s tongue, but the entree is served, and he’d rather not make a scene before he even got to take a single bite out of his expensive food. Pete gets his phone out of his pocket, snaps a few pictures from different angles, before putting it away again. Patrick skips the documentation in favor of unceremoniously starting to eat.

“Think about it,” Pete says as the food in front of him remains untouched, “you and me dating makes total sense.”

“How,” Patrick whispers in the most aggressive way he can, “how, tell me, _ how _does it make any sense?!”

“You seemed rather satisfied with me in bed.” Pete waggles his eyebrows grinning as Patrick struggles for words. Denying it would be ridiculous.

“That’s not a good basis for a relationship,” Patrick tries to argue weakly, wondering when words like _ relationships _ entered this silly conversation.

Pete shrugs, then finally takes a small bite of his food, chewing slowly. Patrick waits, his plate and his head both empty. The situation is surreal.

“You were nice to me,” Pete says as he pushes his plate away. Despite every course being no more than a few tiny, elegantly arranged morsels at best, half the food remains on Pete’s plate. “You didn’t have to pay for anything. But you did, without even wanting anything in exchange for it. That was sweet.”

Patrick forces himself to smile as the next course is served. What he did wasn’t very sweet or selfless, really, if he’s being honest, he only wanted to impress the attractive dude he just slept with. Patrick doesn't say so, because he thinks it’s best to keep that a sweet little lie.

“So, you’re caring,” Pete holds up a finger, “you appreciate the finer lifestyle,” he holds up a second finger, “you’re cute, and good in bed.” He holds up two more fingers, counting down the many screwed-up reasons why fake-dating a hot model is a supposedly smart idea.

“I’m rather sure there are prettier men with money out there.” Patrick stares at his plate, doesn't dare to meet Pete’s eye. He hears Pete giggle – god, that giggling is really, really annoying – before a tan, well-manicured hand finds his.

“Give me some credit,” Pete says with a bright and sunny smile, ignoring the disapproving looks the maître sends their way for being openly romantic instead of eating the much-praised, expensive food. “When I picked you up, I had no idea who you are. We spent a fun night together even though I knew nothing about your financial status. Don’t you think? Why is it so hard to believe I may just genuinely like you?”

“You don’t even know me.” Patrick is flustered, a blush on his face like he’s a teen with a bad crush, and he shouldn’t like this, he shouldn’t enjoy Pete’s hand on his, his heart shouldn’t start to beat faster every time this stunning peroxide prince flashes his bleached teeth at him.

“Then let me get to know you.” Pete’s voice is low and sultry, full of wicked promises. He squeezes Patrick’s hand, then leans back, reaches for the fish knife. Patrick watches Pete take a bite, hears him moan in what is more than just appreciation for French cuisine.

Goddamn it.

Two hours later, Patrick has Pete moaning again, this time because two of his fingers are up to the knuckles in Pete’s ass.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Pete is babbling underneath him, “fuck, Patrick, you’re so – ah, you’re so good at this...” The hard cock curving up against his stomach is a lovely proof of the truthfulness of his words. It’s still untouched because Pete’s still a pillow prince and also, because Patrick made him hold up his legs for deeper impact and for the delightful view. Watching his fingers slide into Pete, feeling him shiver and tighten up the more he rubs against his prostate, fuck, that’s better than any leaked sex tape. “Oh, Patrick, I need – need your cock – need it_ now_...”

Forgotten are any objections to meeting Pete again, gone are all the arguments of why it’s not a good idea to sleep with a guy whose private life is all over the internet. What’s left is Patrick own aching hard-on, throbbing with the need to be buried balls-deep in Pete’s toned, inked, hairless body. His last brain capacity is used up for making a mental note to convince Pete to get tested because Patrick isn’t sure he can resist the offer to bareback him a third time.

“Shhh, hold still,” Patrick instructs as he pushes in, greedy eyes fixed on his dick between Pete’s spread legs, “just a little more, you can adjust when I’m all the way inside.”

Pete mewls when Patrick’s hips meet the back of Pete’s thighs, but doesn’t do anything else as his big, golden eyes keep staring at Patrick. Patrick stills, breathing hard, the thrum of his heartbeat drowning out all other sounds. God, this is just as amazing as the first time.

“You alright?” he mumbles after a moment, gives small kisses to the thorn tattoo adorning Pete’s chest. “Sorry, I was just – caught up in the moment...”

Pete laughs, hoarse and low, different from his usual giggling. “’m good,” he whispers, bats his lashes, “you shouldn’t worry. I can take so much more of your big, big dick.” Dirty talk really doesn’t seem to be Pete’s strength. It’s not Patrick’s either, who just kisses him again, then sits up, intending to move. Pete shakes his head. “Grab my ankles,” he says with a sweet smile, “spread my legs, fuck me hard. Fuck me deep.”

Patrick hesitates, furrows his brows. “Really?”

“Sure.” Pete underlines his answer with another bright-white smile.

This is too good to be true, almost like Pete knows Patrick’s deep, dark fantasies. Only when he’s jerked off to these alone at home, there was never this weird feeling of inhibition. It’s one thing to imagine it, but it’s another entirely to be balls-deep in a semi-stranger who easily entrusts him with his body and the control over it so much, it makes Patrick almost uncomfortable. Maybe Pete’s into being dominated, or maybe he’s just that stupid and trusting, thinks the whole world owes him nothing but kisses and worship, could never hurt him because he’s so goddamn pretty.

Whatever it is, Patrick’s not going to dwell on it. He’s got Pete’s ankles in a firm grip, starts with slow thrusts as he keeps pushing them apart just a little further, just to see where Pete’s limits are. Pete only grins, moans loudly and mostly for show. “Still got it,” he chuckles, no doubt referring to the fact he’s given up the professional sports career a while ago, yet still comes with all the benefits of a gym rat – hard muscles, defined abs, and a flexibility that drives Patrick mad with lust and promises of endless opportunities to explore.

“You feel fucking amazing,” Patrick pants, because he feels like he needs to say something, at least. “C’mon, touch yourself – my hands are a little – fuck, a little preoccupied...” He tightens his grip around Pete’s ankles to underline his words, and thankfully, Pete slides a hand between their bodies to attend to his dick himself. A little annoying how Pete apparently only does so when he’s told to, he’s such a spoiled little prince, but Patrick can’t stay mad when he starts to thrust harder into Pete’s tight heat, chasing his own orgasm.

Patrick comes first, dick buried as deep inside of Pete as possible, his nails leaving five red marks on each of Pete’s legs. It’s breathtaking, delirious, as delightful as the first time and Patrick savors every second of his orgasm.

Underneath him, Pete is breathing hard, legs shaking a little, dark-red cock leaking precum over his toned abs. Head tilted to the right, he’s staring at Patrick like he’s waiting for something, maybe a hand to replace his own, maybe more attention. Patrick slumps forward, trails kisses up Pete’s throat, over his sharp jaw, groans into his left ear: “C’mon Pete, you can come...”

That seems to be all that’s needed to push Pete over the edge, and granted, to have Pete come at his word is sort of thrilling and extremely hot. Patrick kisses the throaty little moan as Pete comes off his pretty lips, waits until Pete’s all loose and relaxed from his own orgasm, then pulls out.

The condom is discarded, and while they’re still messy, Patrick feels too tired and sated to deal with that right now. He just wants to lay down next to Pete, only to be held up by a gentle hand on his chest and the words: “Sorry, but dibs on the left side of the bed.” Patrick rolls his eyes, but lays down on the other side.

Pete stretches his limbs, groaning a little as he does so; he exhales slowly, then, he’s back to bleached-toothed smiles and his usual attitude. “See? Told you we’re a good match,” he chirps, “we’ve had the finest cuisine, you looked adorable in your little suit, we fucked, so there’s just one thing missing to prove my earlier list...”

No way Patrick is going to admit he already forgot what that was; Pete has talked a lot and Patrick isn’t always sure to which parts he’s supposed to pay special attention. Smiling and kissing does seem to be the right start, and handing Pete a Kleenex for the mess between his legs seems to be approved of as well. “Wait, I’ll get you a washcloth,” Patrick tries, and yeah, the way Pete grins at him, Patrick must be continuing to prove himself worthy.

The advantages of an expensive hotel are all the soft towels, the delicate little soaps, the giant comfortable bed that allows Patrick to sit down next to Pete and clean him up. Pete keeps grinning at him, probably loves how much Patrick acts like a lovesick fool already.

Patrick doesn’t dare to ask Pete for a shirt to sleep in – as he’s rather sure he wouldn’t fit one – so he helps himself to his undershirt and briefs as nightwear. To no surprise, Pete stays naked. Patrick climbs back into bed, and holds out an arm for Pete to cuddle up to him. Pete stares at it, doesn’t move, and suddenly, Patrick feels extremely awkward.

Pete grins, pokes Patrick’s belly. “You’re a cuddler?”

“I don’t know,” Patrick stammers as he pulls his shirt down to cover the exposed stripe of soft white flesh, unsure if he’s being mocked. Pete offered to cuddle last time they fucked, too. Yeah, Patrick has never been too big on too much body contact given the imperfections of his, but he’s only human, okay? He does appreciate holding a warm body close to his own as much as the next lonely gay guy in his early thirties. “We, uhm. We don’t need to...”

“Well then. But I gotta be the little spoon.”

Patrick decides Pete’s acting abilities are too shitty to pull off subtle mockery, and who cares? He gets to hug a hot model, gets to bury his nose in bleach-blond hair, smells sweat and sex. He can feel Pete’s chest rising and sinking under his arm, hears him breathe in the moment of silence before Pete curls up closer to him and purrs: “Mmm. I could get used to this.”

“Yeah,” Patrick whispers softly, “me too.”

By the time Patrick is conscious and awake the next morning, Pete has already showered, shaved, and spent an hour in the gym. Once more, Patrick puts the room service on his credit card because really, it makes no difference at this point. Patrick chews on his expensive French toast, fiddles with his glasses as he watches Pete scroll through his phone, and tries to think of something clever to say.

“Did you know the French call an orgasm _ la petite mort_, the little death?”

“Really?” Pete cocks his head, and Patrick wishes he’d left the talking part to Pete. “Then I’d love to die all over again. Don’t you, too?” Despite the laugh, it’s a strangely dark statement from the brightly-bleached, sunny Pete.

It seems less dark ten minutes later when Patrick is laying in bed again, sweat and spit staining the expensive sheets as Pete answers his own question by taking Patrick’s cock into his mouth as far as humanly possible. And fuck, Pete’s excellent at sucking dick, and Patrick could really get used to spending his mornings like this.

They leave the hotel together, Patrick intending to head home while Pete claims he is is booked for a shoot, and maybe, just maybe, Patrick is beginning to like the idea of being seen with Pete, having someone as gorgeous hang on his arm and give him a goodbye kiss, even if it’s staged for scandalous headlines on the internet.

  


Joe is waiting by the car, shaking his head as he watches Patrick approach after parting from Pete with one last kiss. “So, you’re marrying Pete Wentz?”

“I – I what?” Patrick slides into the seat next to Joe, but Joe doesn't even start the engine; instead, he sends Patrick a disapproving frown.

“You’re marrying Pete Wentz,” Joe repeats slowly, as if that helped to make the words make sense, “that’s what they’re saying. On the internet.”

With an indignant huff, Patrick crosses his arms over his chest. “I don’t know why you believe these stupid rumors. I’m not even sure if we’re actually dating.”

Joe raises an eyebrow in disbelief. “Well, _ Wentz _ seems to believe you’re dating, and the things he’s saying… How long have you been keeping this from everyone? I know why you kept it from _ me _, because I sure as hell don’t think marrying some hot guy for the Hollywood cliché is a good idea…”

“Just _ drive_,” is all Patrick answers angrily, and Joe does, but in tight-lipped silence and without losing the disapproving frown. Patrick’s phone announces various missed calls from his manager, more frantic messages from Ryan, and other bullshit he doesn't want to deal with. The only message Patrick answers is the text from Travie, and with one glance at Joe, he already knows he’ll be taking a cab to the bar they’re meeting at.

“You’re really gonna marry Pete Wentz?” Travie puts the tiny shot glass on the table, then leans back into the comfortable seat.

“I feel like my conversations are very one-dimensional these days.” Patrick laughs weakly. “I don’t – look, I didn’t start this rumor, okay?”

“Sure you didn’t.” Travie shrugs, like he’d rather not argue. “Whatever, it’s out there now, and you gotta do something about it.”

What Patrick feels like doing is crying. And screaming. Maybe doing both, at the same time. Within the last few days, he seems to have lost control over his life completely.

The downside of dating guys like Pete Wentz, as he has learned, is far more serious than just some possibly bad shots of him plastered on the internet. No, the downside is that everything Pete does gets talked to death on the internet by reporters, his fans, by goddamn Pete himself in the form of sly answers, cryptic tweets, posts on Instagram and every other social media platform available that Patrick usually doesn’t bother with.

A selfie of Pete before their – their date, fuck, Patrick can’t deny it – all dressed up and “_ ready to meet the bae_”, as the caption states. Patrick’s IG profile is tagged, which surely must make Ryan happy, but only makes Patrick even more nervous.

Photos of the French food from “_ at @melisse_ig, a good place to talk about important business xxx_”.

The story on IG showing Pete in gym shorts, from the waist down, showing the five red scratch marks on his ankles, captioned with “_ heavy workout session ;) _”

The street snaps of them kissing reposted to all of Patrick’s various social media accounts, titled and captioned with various hearts and other emojis, and for the love of fuck, Pete’s profiles are tagged in each and every one of them.

Yelling at Ryan and demanding the posts to be taken down has yielded no success; the damage has been done already anyway. Yelling at Bob was even worse; all Patrick got as an answer was a laugh and the promise of some cold-hearted business talk about the whole ordeal.

“I didn’t mean any of this,” Patrick says with a helpless gesture.

Travie laughs, shakes his head. “Sure. You did seem to enjoy the attention Pete got you, though. And the sex.”

Patrick frowns, takes a deep gulp of his 2016 Le Vieux Donjon. French wine helped to get him into this mess, so maybe it can help to solve it. “Maybe I did,” he admits with a sigh. “But I never meant for it to escalate like that.”

“Then maybe don’t fuck guys like him. Twice. Or however many times you two did it, it kinda depends on the source...”

“So you’re saying it’s my fault?” Patrick glares at Travie, with little effect. Travie has known him since college, and Travie is the last guy to be intimidated by Patrick.

“I’m saying you knew what you were getting into, and now you’re mad that the absolutely predictable has happened.” Travie takes a sip of his hip and expensive locally brewed craft beer. “Hey, I mean, just marry him. That will end the rumors, and you can get laid in peace.”

Patrick stares into his wine glass, and says nothing.

  


“Patrick, stop being a self-righteous idiot for five minutes, and listen to my professional advice.”

Bob sounds rather serious. Patrick wishes he was anywhere else in the world, but, well, he’s paying Bob a lot of money and meeting with one’s manager once in a while is kind of mandatory. Even if said manager is a cruel bastard.

“You’re the son of a half-forgotten country star. No one cares about the grown-up, no longer cute kids of people long dead.”

“He died three years ago,” Patrick intervenes half-heartedly, only to be shushed by Bob.

“Whatever. You did great work in the past,” Bob continues, “but people want big names. They want someone they can recognize. They don’t care how much money you inherited from daddy. They wanna see you do something with it. And the industry needs big names to sell their movies. Names like Ellen DeGeneres, or Will Smith. They want a gimmick, anything to sell you and bank in on your name. And with the recent scandals surrounding people like Kevin Spacey...”

“_People like Kevin Spacey_,” Patrick repeats angrily, “don’t worry, I’m gay, but still not a sex offender.”

Bob shrugs. “I know, but does the public? It’s not like they saw you with someone else...”

Patrick feels his face heat up, and he also feels like throwing his remaining green tea into Bob’s stupid face and all over his Calvin Klein suit. “Oh my god, just stop it! Now I need to marry to prove I’m not a creep? How does that make sense?!”

It’s really aggravating that Bob isn’t the least bit bothered by Patrick’s anger. He leans back into his chair, stays silent for a moment, as if he’s testing Patrick’s patience. “Ask the movie-going public of America. As homophobic as they are, they prefer people they can figure out. Like Neil Patrick Harris with his husband and those cute adopted kids in cute matching Halloween costumes.”

Silence lingers between them as Bob empties his coffee and Patrick contemplates murder.

“And if I can give you some personal advice...” Bob leans closer, sighs a little. “This is LA, Patrick. Sure, it is full of pretty people, but how many of them are gay men desperate to marry you? Not a lot, I’d say. And you’re not getting any younger...”

“I am 31!” Patrick glares at Bob, who remains unfazed. It is hard to admit, but he’s kind of right. It’s not like anyone – supermodel or not – is currently lining up to date Patrick, let alone marry him. “And Pete only wants me for my money!”

Bob scoffs. “And you only want him because he’s attractive. I’d say your own superficiality makes you even.”

Patrick is torn between hysterical laughter, and crying. “These are my options?” He asks weakly, fiddling with the sleeves of his worn-out cardigan. “A fake marriage with another LA model that only wants money?”

“I don’t think it’s all about the money.” Bob smiles, like he always does when he’s sharing the insider gossip. “My sources tell me Wentz did pretty badly in his last divorce, and it did not only screw him out of a lot of money. The dirt that was thrown around really hurt his career. Lost sponsorships, canceled photo shoots, he didn’t get to renew some important contracts, his agency almost kicked him out… He’s in desperate need to get his image back on track. In the professional world at least. Needs someone who makes him look good.”

It’s Patrick’s turn to scoff, while Bob eyes him up like he’s mentally calculating Patrick’s net worth. “You’d be a good fit,” Bob explains to him, “hard-working, sensible, boring… You’re bringing the image of stability to the table and by God, that guy could really use it. Plus, I heard Pete Wentz turned 32 this year. He’s pretty much half-dead to Hollywood already. Now’s your chance to get him while he still has some good years left in him.”

“Thanks so much,” Patrick says sarcastically. “Any more uplifting words?”

“Well, if you seek romance, LA isn’t the city for you.” Bob clears his throat, gets his business smile on. “Look, we’d get you a prenup so Wentz can’t screw you out of your money, you sign some documents, wear a wedding band, and enjoy being legally bound to one of the hottest asses in America. That’s what marriage is about in these parts of society. Don’t tell me you’d rather wait for a Disney prince to sweep in and rescue you from a life of loneliness and gold diggers?”

Sometimes, Patrick hates himself for hiring a manager that cares so little about sugarcoating the bitter truths he’s spewing. Marriage is a concept Patrick personally doesn’t believe in anyway, after seeing his parent’s going to shit in a slow, painful manner, but… Indeed, what are his other options? Patrick is a workaholic with little time and energy to date, and while there are enough horny guys willing to tolerate him for a one-night stand, how many want to wake up to him every day for the rest of the average 10 years that a marriage lasts?

The truth is, none. The hard facts are that Patrick is alone, close to being lonely, in a city of cynics, there’s no plus one to take to awards, no good morning kisses or sleepy faces of a loved one greeting him in the morning, no chance of at least semi-regular sex with the same person. The cold and scary reality is that Patrick finds himself sighing, and asking: “Well, what’s in it for me?”

Bob rolls his eyes. “Sex with an attractive man? Showing off? A better image of a cute married life? The opportunity for jobs, Patrick. Plus, I am pretty sure Pete might even have some connections, he didn’t get those movie roles and even music video appearances because he’s a talented actor. He sucked some cocks for that, maybe he can suck some more and get you in there as well. I say go for it. Marry him. We’ll sell it as a Beauty and The Beast story. Or maybe, in a Taming Of The Shrew-way. Y’know, Pete the party boy, settling down with a smart, sensible, sensitive and also successful Hollywood insider?”

“I don’t think that’s what the Shakespeare play is about, at all.” Patrick doesn’t even bother to acknowledge the hurtful and frankly equally ridiculous Beauty and the Beast spin.

“Spoken like a true fool who overpaid for a degree in theater. Nobody cares for small details,” Bob says mercilessly, “you should finally take that lesson to heart. People want to be sold bullshit, as long as it comes with a good story and pretty visuals. And if any of your fellow snobby theater majors complain, well. There is no such thing as bad publicity, right?”

“Ask Pete if he agrees,” Patrick grumbles, but Bob shakes his head, taps away on his phone already.

“All I’m going to do is ask his lawyer to meet up for the prenup negotiations,” Bob says as he keeps tapping on his phone, “I’ll call your publicist, see how we can spin the story. Shotgun wedding. Love at first sight. Whatever.”

“I haven’t even asked him yet.”

“Don’t worry,” Bob laughs, “he won’t say no.”

  


Starbucks, LA, just a regular day of stars and starlets getting their caffeine.

“We’re really doing this,” Patrick mumbles nervously, more to himself than to the man sitting opposite to him.

“What?” Pete says with a smile. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

Patrick looks around, then leans closer, almost knocking over Pete’s sugary-sweet white chocolate mocha frappucino. “The marriage,” Patrick repeats, and he feels utterly ridiculous saying it out loud, “we’re really going through with it?”

“Hey, I always said we were a good match.” Pete dips his finger into the whipped cream, and it lingers a little too long in his mouth when he licks it off. Patrick swallows. Any second, the alarm clock will go off and tear him out of this weird dream. “My lawyer will mail the prenup draft asap, you can go over it with your own legal team, and as soon as that’s settled, we’re ready to go.”

This isn’t right. This is absolutely wrong, and nothing like Patrick has imagined it at all. When he thinks engagement, he thinks of big emotions, of tears, maybe a ring. Not sitting in a goddamn Starbucks with an (in)famous LA model, sipping coffee and talking about lawyers and prenups like they’re discussing real estate.

Pete doesn't appear to share any of Patrick’s worries. “I like the shotgun spin,” he says, then grins, “but we can talk wedding planning when the prenups are drawn up.”

There’s no alarm clock ringing. Patrick isn’t dreaming. Pete is really sitting here with him, holding his hand – wait, wait, when did that happen? - while he licks away some of the whipped cream stuck to his upper lip, in no way bothered that a short, chubby, balding, rich guy just proposed marriage to him after barely two weeks of knowing each other.

Pete smiles his million-dollar smile at him. Patrick smiles back.

And then, the truth settles in.

He might really end up marrying Pete Wentz.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! Can you guess what happens next chapter, haha? ;) 
> 
> See you all next week!~


	3. Chapter 3

“I want a big, fancy wedding.”

They’re sitting in the restaurant of the Four Seasons for a business lunch. Meaning, Patrick’s lawyer argues with Pete’s over the fine tuning of the prenup, while Pete has dragged Patrick away for a less professional conversation about the actual wedding ceremony.

“A big, big party,” Pete repeats excitedly, “an _ event_.”

Patrick pushes his glasses up, frowns. He has a lot less enthusiasm, and none of Pete’s desire to have this stupid semi-fake wedding turn out even more pretentious than it already is. It’s not like Patrick believes in marriage in the first place. A few half-hearted vows and some signatures won’t magically change anyone’s lives. Easily-made old promises won’t help once the problems start to settle in. A big, fancy engagement and wedding party won’t prevent fighting, screaming, and tears. No wedding ring will stop spouses from doing stupid shit like cheating or having band-aid babies to patch up the metaphorical equivalent of an open, infected wound.

While Patrick doesn’t believe in marriage, he also doesn't want to turn it into a complete mockery, and not only because he knows Joe might quit on the spot if he does so. No, it’s rather for Patrick’s own sake, because he can live with having married a trophy husband to boost his Hollywood image, that’s alright, his conscience can take that, but he doesn’t necessarily need to be reminded of that. More importantly, he doesn’t need to remind everyone else as well by making a big deal out of it like there’s a single person who can’t see through this thinly-veiled opportunism on both sides.

Pete babbles on and on about possible locations and catering and possible artists for personalized and hand-printed wedding invitations while Patrick bites back annoyed comments. “That wouldn’t fit the narrative,” he tries to argue instead. “We need something quick and easy. Low-key and sensible. Remember?”

Pete pouts. “But I want a big princess wedding.”

Patrick, almost at the end of his patience, sends him a glare. “And are you going to pay for it?”

Finally, Pete shuts his mouth.

“Thought so.” Patrick turns around to the lawyers’ table, and there seems to be some progress, because his own lawyer gestures him to come over.

Andrew Hurley is not a typical LA lawyer, but that’s what Patrick likes about him. Vogel/Harrison is an LA-based all-service firm with dozens of employees, but Patrick prefers Andy. Not only is he cheaper than the name partners, he’s also less likely to lie to Patrick to keep him a compliant client, which is worth a lot in this city.

“Nothing really unusual,” Andy says while he scratches his neck; he’s opened the first two buttons of his shirt, revealing bright ink and the promise of oven more tattoos beneath his crisp white shirt. He usually keeps those hidden, either under said shirt or rather impressive make up. “I’d say they’re desperate, given their willingness to cooperate. Well, good for us. Your separate property assets will be safe, should you choose to divorce. No spousal maintenance. Whatever happens, he won’t screw you out of your money. Read over it for yourself, though. Ah, and there’s this one part...” He hands Patrick the draft, points his engraved Montblanc pen to the page in question. “It’s an NDA about Pete’s medical records. Don’t know, he’s got the signed documents and test results proving that he has no STDs or anything, but...”

Patrick clicks his tongue as he tries to make sense of the dry, long-winded legal language; he doesn't want to be too cynical, but it sounds like Pete wanting to make sure Patrick can’t tell anyone he divorced him in case Pete’s affair gave him herpes or HIV.

“They were rather insistent on it. Since it’s got nothing to do with money, and since they were so forthcoming in every other aspect, I wasn’t sure if it’s worth debating.” Andy fiddles with the black Montblanc. Patrick knows that without the Dermablend, there would be more ink on the back of his hands, and the words FUCK CITY spelled on his fingers. LA is an interesting place to be.

There are more cynical thoughts and sad scenarios playing in Patrick’s head, but he decides to ignore that. “Can I demand Pete and his partners wear condoms in case of extramarital affairs?”

Andy shrugs, not the least bit irritated by such a question. “Sure. I can’t promise you that he keeps up with his part of the agreement, but if not, I’ll be glad to help you sue.”

Patrick smiles weakly.

“Ah, one other part jumped out at me.” Andy turns the pages, points to a different section. “It’s – it’s about dogs? Basically, it says that Pete gets full custody of any and all dogs you choose to bring into the household while married.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Patrick furrows his brows as he reads over it. It’s really in the prenup draft, black on white. That’s the one lesson Pete took away from his last marriage?!

“I can see if I can get it changed,” Andy offers, and Patrick just groans, shakes his head.

“Leave it. I won’t do something as ridiculous as fight over custody for dogs before we’re even married. I think there’s been enough of that with his ex, and I won’t get dragged down to that level. Give him the dogs, but make sure he’s signing off on the extramarital need for condoms.”

Patrick can’t believe these words are really coming out of his mouth in all seriousness. Andy, always the professional, jots down a few notes, then taps his pen against his notepad. “Just out of curiosity – do you know how old Pete actually is?” Irritated, Patrick looks up from the legal documents in front of him. Andy glances towards Pete’s table, out of earshot and busy with their own negotiations, then slips Patrick another piece of paper. “They had to give me his driver’s license and an original birth certificate for the marriage license, and everyone, including Pete, seemed rather interested that I alone handle that, without you ever taking a look at it...”

Patrick takes a closer look at the small print of the birth certificate, finds the column for the birth date, and does the math. “Thirty-six? For real?” Angrily, Patrick takes a double look, but no, his glasses work fine, the numbers are real. “Bob told me he was 32!”

“Wouldn’t be the first in LA to lie about his age.” Andy shrugs, tucks the birth certificate back into his folder. “But I thought you might want to know the truth now.”

That explains a lot. For example, why Patrick couldn’t find a reliable source of age on Pete’s Wikipedia entry, or why Pete is so goddamn desperate to get married as soon as possible. Patrick must be the only fool in Hollywood to get a trophy husband that’s five years older than himself, and also close to goddamn forty.

“You can still back out,” Andy says with a professional, tight-lipped smile, “and _ now _ will be easier and cheaper than once you sign this.”

Patrick glances over to Pete’s table, to bleach-blond hair, the tattered tank top barely covering Pete’s chest, the hard muscles of Pete’s biceps as he gestures with his hands. Goddamn, Pete still looks amazing for his age, hence why he easily passes as younger, and really, in this case, isn’t age just a number? When’s the next time Patrick will have a chance at marrying a beautiful man like him? Probably when he’s sixty-eight and can’t get it up anymore anyway. Or, at least not anytime soon, so his other option would be to stay lonely, miserable, and merely waste the years that his dick is still working fine with jerking off instead of screwing the live equivalent of Malibu Ken.

“No,” Patrick says more to himself than to Andy, “No, no. I’ll do it. Back to the prenup, okay? Let me see the rest of it...”

True to Andy’s word, Pete and his legal team must be rather desperate, because three days later, the prenup is finalized and signed. Patrick tries not to think too hard about what that might mean.

Instead, Patrick finds himself at the courthouse, next to Pete, sweating profusely into his black tux. Bob and one of Pete’s lawyers act as their witness, and Pete has gotten them a red-haired, energetic woman who looks more like she belongs in front of the camera rather than behind to take their picture. Patrick’s manager has assured him that Miss Williams is a great choice, and since Pete knew her well enough to get her booked on such short notice, Patrick isn’t complaining.

Patrick taps his feet, and tugs at his collar. He’s worn this tux to the Grammy’s three years ago, and it used to be less tight, but there’s no good tailor available to commission a groom’s suit on such a short notice. His hands, holding their wedding bouquet - hyacinths, and white roses - are damp from sweat.

Meanwhile, Pete is decked out in a gray tux, with a matching embroidered breast pocket handkerchief and bow tie to complement the wedding bouquet, and he somehow manages to look elegant, refined and classy instead of like a waiter. No, he looks utterly _ beautiful_, and it makes Patrick even more nervous. Any second, this gorgeous man to his right must come to his senses, take one look at sweaty, anxious Patrick, and decide there must be prettier men to pursue for money.

Pete does no such thing. He goes through the process in a calm, smooth manner (no wonder, Patrick thinks to himself with some cynicism, unlike him, Pete’s had some practice), head cocked to the right as he listens to the magistrate, presenting their photographer the most photogenic side of himself. Patrick barely registers any of it, he just nods, they sign the final document, and then, that’s it. The whole thing took less than a minute.

“Hey, Patrick. We gotta give Hayley a good shot of us, kissing. Let’s hurry, the next people are already waiting...” Pete grins at him while Patrick just nods, again, lets Hayley fumble and tug at him until she’s satisfied with their position, and then he’s really kissing his legally wed husband for the first time. It feels good. It feels surprisingly good, and Patrick only stops because Bob pats his shoulder, reminds him that they need to make room for the next soon-to-be spouses.

“Cute, cute,” Hayley mumbles as she runs a hand through her cherry-red, dyed hair. “We’ll do some in front of the building, show off the ring, and then I’ll catch you guys at the airport.” Her assistant is waiting outside for them, carrying various reflectors, more camera equipment, and she’s already set everything up in a nice, quiet corner. Patrick is thoroughly awkward, he’s barely realized the man next to him is bound to him by law now, is his actual fucking husband, so one might forgive him for not being immediately ready for a professional photo shoot (that is supposed to look totally casual though).

Thankfully, Pete is not only a natural in front of the camera, he’s had enough job experience to take the lead. He drapes Patrick’s arm around his waist, whispers crash course instructions on how to pose, and really, his million-dollar smile overshadows all of Patrick’s mishaps in front of the camera.

Only when they’re finally done and sitting in the car can Patrick take a deep breath, and relax for the first time since he entered the damn courthouse. “Congratulations,” he hears Joe say, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“You could’ve come inside,” Patrick mumbles.

“No, thanks.” Joe’s back to the smooth and professional tone, the one he never uses unless he’s mad.

“You can catch the pictures later on the internet,” Pete says with a smile, and he doesn’t seem bothered by Joe’s small scoff and the angrily whispered “sure as hell won’t”. Patrick thinks it’s best to ignore it, too.

Two hours later, they’re flying first class to Hawaii, and finally, Patrick feels all the tension melt from his aching shoulders. What could be more relaxed than the honeymoon with his hot model husband in a five star Spa resort?

To his right, Pete has finally put away the phone after trying to take and then edit the best possible selfie of them on the plane. The whole documenting every little moment thing is rather annoying, but it’s part of Pete’s job, and Patrick can basically see Travie in front of him, brows raised, telling him how he knew what to expect and how he shouldn’t be mad the obviously and inevitable is happening now. Pete has changed into a simple white shirt and black denim jeans – at least no tacky Hawaiian-themed clothing – and he’s carrying a leather jacket with him that looks like it’s about as expensive as a decent used car.

“It’s gonna be fun,” Pete sing-songs as he turns to Patrick, rests his chin on his hand. “I got some new ad contracts and some sponsored clothes to show off, but no worries. Hayley is gonna take care of that.

Hayley, as it turns out, is not just their wedding photographer. Oh no, she and her assistant are flying coach in this very same plane, and they’re scheduled for photos, snapshots, some interviews, and whatever the hell Pete needs to do for his job. This is already not how Patrick imagined his dream honeymoon but hey, it’s just a couple of pictures, how bad can it be?

At the hotel, dressed in bathrobes and being instructed to pose for the past half hour, Patrick rethinks his previous attitude towards photography.

“I’d rather have you guys in underwear,” Hayley says with a small frown, “but, I guess the robes are fine, too.” Patrick smiles weakly. No way he’s letting himself get caught naked on camera next to fucking Pete Wentz. “But, loosen them up a little, c’mon, Pete, give us a peek at least. Patrick, no, stop that, we need to get the hotel logo from the robes on camera. And Jeanette, please, would you put that damn champagne bottle in the frame?! No, no, turn it a little, we can’t make the logo be too obvious -”

Hell is a place on earth, and it is this very hotel room full of dyed hair, ring lights, and cameras. Despite the stress, Pete seems to enjoy himself, he’s all grins and giggles and half-undressed seducer, all while Patrick is stiff and nervous and the hand holding the champagne glass is shaking just a little. Hayley gives more commands to Jeanette, there are more blending lights and hectic movements and Patrick is this close to just giving up if it weren’t for Pete giving him a reassuring smile as he leans forward, whispers: “Thank you so much for doing this, babe.”

With marriage, Patrick has graduated from simply being “Patrick” to being Pete’s “babe”, a bit unimaginative, but it still sends a shiver down his spine. Pete fucking Wentz is calling him babe, no trace of irony, with that bleached, bright smile of his – it’s enough to get Patrick to smile back, which finally makes Hayley exclaim: “Yes, Patrick, that’s it! Keep up that smile! Now, Pete, get in position, let’s do that again!”

And finally, fucking finally, Hayley is satisfied with the result, she packs up most her shit (“No, I’ll leave the rest here because I know I’m gonna need it”) and then she and Jeanette are out, leaving the two newly-weds to finally be alone and in peace for the first time today.

Patrick empties the champagne flute in one go, grimaces as it’s gone stale already, and then falls back into the soft, comfortable mattress. His head is pounding, probably from going without sleep for too long. He knows there are a dozen unread messages and sixteen missed calls on his phone, four of them from his mom. Their schedule for tomorrow is packed already and Patrick is just so tired.

Pete isn’t. He’s bouncy and full of pent-up energy as he climbs onto Patrick’s lap, shakes off the bath robe with one elegant gesture. “You’ve got me all to yourself,” he rasps, batting his lashes as he leans forward to undo Patrick’s robe, too. “What are you going to do with me, dear hubby?”

Now, under any different circumstances, Patrick would surely have a clever answer, or at least a boner. But he hasn’t slept at all last night, he’s been up all day, getting dragged from the courthouse to the airport to the hotel, and somewhere in between he married Pete and took a bunch of pictures and he hasn’t had a minute to himself, unless you count a ten-minute bathroom break in the airplane.

“Pete, I’m done for today,” Patrick admits with a sigh. “It’s been hectic and confusing and I’m just so done with everything. What about you? Don’t you want to sleep?”

Pete shrugs. “I don’t really sleep much. Insomnia, you know. And lots of nervous energy.”

“Great. But can we deal with that tomorrow?”

Pete furrows his brows. “What about our wedding night though? Don’t you want me to give you something you won’t forget?”

Patrick yawns, and shakes his head. He tries to play it cool, even though a big part of him is very stressed and embarrassed about the fact that his dick, despite the temptation, stays soft. “Pretty sure I won’t forget I’m married to you anytime soon. Speaking of, since we’re married now, I’m also pretty sure we will have enough other nights to fuck.”

“If you say so...” Pete seems confused rather than disappointed, but he doesn't press the issue. He climbs off Patrick’s lap, stares at him with honey-sweet eyes. “Hey babe. You still a cuddler?”

“Why?” Patrick asks only further embarrassed. “That not appropriate now that we’re married?”

For a long, painful moment, Patrick thinks Pete might say yes, might drop the cutesy act and laugh at Patrick for being a desperate loser who can’t get it up for his hot husband and who asks for goddamn cuddles on his wedding night.

In the end, Pete says nothing. He just lays down, back turned to Patrick, who takes it as an invitation to spoon him. Pete sighs in contentment, he doesn’t seem to enjoy it any less than he did last time, and Patrick is glad it wasn’t just an act he put on for his rich potential spouse to lure him into marriage. Because holding Pete still feels rather nice, and Patrick soon dozes off, arms slung around the man he now calls his husband, the faint glow of happiness warming his heart.

Patrick regrets his decision to trade potential sex for sleep when coming morning, Pete and Hayley drag him pretty much right out of the bed to the poolside. “The lighting is best now,” Hayley explains mercilessly, “don’t spill that coffee on the bathrobe, please.”

Of course, Pete is already all dolled up, talking animatedly with Hayley and Jeanette while Patrick is sitting on the beach chair, sipping iced coffee, and staring at Pete’s ass. He’s wearing the tiniest bathing trunks Patrick has ever seen – they’re tight, low-cut, and more revealing than most of the swimwear worn by the women around them. The bold, geometric print in bright pink and yellow is sure to catch the eye, too. But fuck, can Pete pull them off.

Eventually, Pete turns around to him, smiles sweetly as he walks towards Patrick. “Stay like this,” he instructs, as if Patrick was stupid enough to go anywhere, especially now that Pete is straddling his lap, oh God. Why hasn’t Patrick taken him up on the offer of fucking yesterday? The bathrobe does a pretty bad job at hiding Patrick’s growing erection.

“That for me?” Pete whispers with a small giggle when he brushes a hand over Patrick’s crotch, gets a groan in response. “One good picture, and then I promise I’ll take care of you...” Patrick nods, because he doesn’t trust his voice right now. “Grab my ass,” Pete instructs, “no, no, the right hand, we gotta get the wedding ring in frame. Put your left hand on my hip...”

Hell has manifested on earth again, this time in form of this poolside, with Hayley and Pete arguing about the best position to show off the swimwear while Patrick holds on tightly to Pete’s hips, five seconds away from grinding up against him like he would have loved to do as a horny teen. “Is this really necessary?” Patrick grumbles through gritted teeth, his self-control in immediate danger of being abandoned for the promise of Pete’s hand or mouth on his dick, _ now_, no matter who’s watching.

“Babe, _ Marco Marco _ is paying me for the promotion of their newest swimwear collection,” Pete shifts on his knees, arches his back a little, “please, I just need one good shot with you.”

It’s only thanks to Patrick’s professional pride that he grits his teeth again, and tries his best to go with it. Okay, he might not be the model here, but a job is a job, he won’t ruin that for Pete no matter how provocatively he smiles, how much closer he grinds to Patrick, or how irritated Patrick is by the two photographers tugging and touching them all the time.

When they’re done, Patrick barely registers his surroundings as he drags Pete – who’s still wearing nothing but the tiny swim trunks, barely covered by the hastily thrown on bathrobe – back to their room. Pete almost trips twice, giggling as he tries to keep up with Patrick’s pace.

They finally reach their King sized bed, blankets and pillows kicked off to make more space, and Patrick grabs the travel-sized lube bottle from the nightstand. He preps Pete hastily, two slicked up fingers up Pete’s ass while he sucks Pete’s cock, fuck, he just can’t wait any longer.

A minute later, Pete straddles Patrick’s lap again, and this time, they’re both naked and hard; this time, there’s nothing and no one stopping them from fucking. Pete’s leaning back, lets Patrick watch how his bare cock slowly slides into Pete’s wet, bleached hole. Their first time as a married couple, and also, finally, the first time Patrick can bareback Pete without any worries, knowing for sure he’s clean. Fuck, Pete feels amazing, slick and tight and desperate, and he looks amazing, too, messy and pretty and wanton. Before he’s taken all of Patrick’s dick, Patrick slides a hand down, finger trailing over Pete’s rim, then pushing it into him.

“This… This too much?”

“Oh, fuck,” he hears Pete whimper, “fuck, no. I can take it...”

Patrick isn’t really into the whole domination mindset like Pete seems to be, it might be a topic worth talking about, later, sometimes when he isn’t balls-deep into Pete, crooking his finger to further loosen Pete up and find his prostate. Pete’s breathing hard, hands digging into Patrick’s thighs to support himself, amber eyes cast downwards to meet Patrick’s gaze. Pete’s dick, blood-red and spit-wet from the blowjob Patrick gave him while fingering him open, is begging to be touched, but Patrick likes to pretend he has a little dignity left. He’s giving Pete so much already, yeah, Pete can work a little harder for his orgasm than just batting his lashes and looking pretty.

“Move,” Patrick whispers in a low voice, “c’mon, Pete, don’t just sit there.” Pete keeps staring at him, tilts his head to the right, and says: “Sorry, babe, what was that?”

Already impatient and slowly getting desperate, Patrick’s other hand grabs Pete’s hip, thumb pressing against the muscles under the tan skin, the paleness of his hand and the gold of his wedding band a nice contrast. “_ Move_,” Patrick repeats, louder and less restrained this time.

“Ah,” Pete giggles again, “yeah, of course...”

Finally, Pete gets the clues and starts to ride Patrick’s dick, and goddamn, of course he’s fucking good at it, too. The hours in the gym have paid off, not only in acquiring a lean body with nicely defined abs, but also in the strength and stamina in the bedroom. Patrick watches with lust and pride as Pete bounces on his dick, feels the stretch of Pete’s hole, notices him shiver and clench down around his cock and finger, increasingly harder and more greedy. And Patrick wants him to come first, but since Pete arguably needs his hands to balance himself, Patrick decides to take care of Pete’s dick.

“You wanna come?” Patrick groans. Pete’s cock is hot and heavy in his right hand, the spit from the foreplay-blowjob smoothing Patrick’s movements as he starts to stroke him.

“If you… If you let me,” Pete pants back. That hits right into Patrick’s pride, because fuck this, he’s not a bad lay, he can satisfy Pete’s needs, he’s proven it before and he’s ready to prove it again. Patrick’s hand picks up speed, long strokes caressing Pete’s (not overly impressive) length, thumb gliding over the head, wiping away the first drops of pre-cum, and so what if Patrick marvels a little at his own wedding band dragging over the sensitive skin of his gorgeous husband’s dick. It’s simply a good look, and the moans Pete makes are music to Patrick’s ears.

To Patrick’s satisfaction (and, if he’s being honest, a tiny bit to his relief as well) Pete does come first, head thrown back, eyes shut, mouth agape as his dick coats Patrick’s tummy with white streaks.

After he’s come, Pete slows down a bit, but Patrick’s hand, now back on his hip, demands him to keep moving. “Don’t stop yet, just… Just a bit more,” Patrick says through gritted teeth; he’s not sure if Pete understood what he said, all that matters is Pete keeps moving. Not long after, Patrick’s own orgasm lets him groan, makes him thrust up into Pete’s fucked-out hole one last time as he comes harder and more intense than before, the lack of a condom providing that extra bit of thrill that Patrick missed the past times they fucked.

Pete is still leaning back, hands dug into Patrick’s thighs, eyes half-closed and lips parted. Fuck, he’s so cute in his post-orgasm haze, Patrick kind of wants to pull him forward, pull him into a hug, regardless of the sweat and semen on their bodies. He decides not to push his luck, and to not further his reputation as the fat, balding guy who’s a clingy, needy cuddler.

Instead, he slowly pulls out his finger, causing Pete to wince a little, as well as causing some of his cum to leak out of Pete already, dripping down on Patrick’s crotch. Patrick clears his throat. “Stop squirming, and get off my dick, or you’ll be even more sore.”

Patrick watches as Pete slowly lifts himself off his cock, then climbs off his lap to lay down on his side next to him. He puts his left hand on Patrick’s shoulder, ring finger adorned with simple gold; Pete insisted on wearing his ring on the left, “so we can always look at both our rings when we hold hands!” Maybe, it’s better for pictures, too. Patrick hasn’t questioned the decision.

“You wanna see where you gave your new husband what he needed?” Pete asks with a knowing smile, like he can read Patrick’s dirty, dirty mind. He lifts his leg, reveals the red, leaking pucker between, and Patrick can’t help but marvel at the sight. He’s been dreaming of fucking Pete Wentz like that since forever, and now it’s real, Pete’s in bed with him, grinning as Patrick’s hand trails down his toned body, settles between his legs. Patrick can’t resist sliding two fingers back into Pete, feeling how wet and loose he is. Pete whimpers, shudders, but the initial resistance wears off quickly, and he’s grinning again.

“You like?” Pete asks, clenching down on Patrick’s fingers.

“Fuck,” is all Patrick manages to groan back, “oh fuck, Pete, give me five minutes and I’ll show you how much I like it...”

The days pass by in a colorful, noisy blur of the Hawaiian sun, naked inked skin, sweaty sex, tropical cocktails, watching Pete’s photo shoots (whenever Patrick’s not asked to participate himself) while pretending to read over one of the scripts Bob sent him along with several dozen emails congratulating Patrick on his marriage. Their schedule is packed, not only because there’s a profit to be made of this wedding, but also because quite simply, there wasn’t much time to reschedule regular work and other important appointments on such short notice. Patrick talks a whole lot to Bob and Ryan and his legal team, his accountant, his real estate agent, Andy again, one of the producers who wants him for a small role in a darling little indie movie and awards bait, and by day three, he has run out of excuses to not call his mom.

“You got married without telling me,” she screams through the phone. Patrick is sitting by the poolside, in the shadow since unlike Pete, he burns after five minutes of sunlight. It would be nice to enjoy the luxuries of the serene Spa hotel that he paid a fortune for, but no. “Patrick, how could you do this to me?”

Patrick grimaces, glad that his mother isn’t on video call. “I didn’t do anything to you,” he scoffs, “I got married, that’s my business, mom.”

“Your business? Your husband is family now, don’t you think you should’ve introduced him to me?”

That’s an easy question with only one answer, given he married scandal boy Pete Wentz. “No, I don’t.”

On the other end, Patricia sighs, then speaks in that condescending mom-voice she always uses when she explains something to Patrick (despite the fact he’s in his thirties, and doesn’t need lectures anymore.) “Don’t you see how that makes me feel, sweetie? I know you’re an adult, but to me, you’ll always be my little boy, and...”

“Mom, just stop it. I got married because it’s good for my career, that’s it. You know I don’t believe in the whole happily ever after bullshit. Pete and I, we’re just two adults, being honest with each other and making a smart business decision. Unlike you and dad.”

It’s a low blow, Patrick knows. His mother stays quiet for a while.

“I tried my best to make it work, Patrick, and you know it.”

“Yeah, I know,” Patrick says bitterly, “but when Pete and I don’t work out, I’ll just divorce him instead of adopting a poor African orphan or whatever the gay equivalent to getting knocked up with a band-aid baby might be.”

It’s another low blow, sure, but Patrick doesn't feel like having his life choices questioned by hypocrites. He is the living, breathing example of how romantic marriages don’t work out, he is the byproduct of desperation and love gone stale and some manager telling his dad that an All-American branded singer like him would look much better with a loving wife and a cute little baby at his side rather than divorced. Why not be honest about it instead of trying to sugarcoat LA’s bitter truth?

Patrick uses his mom’s silence to make up an excuse about work, and hang up.

All that is almost forgotten (or at least shoved to the very back of his head) when later, after Pete is done with whatever models do all day for money, Patrick drags him to a secluded corner at the beach. The palm trees and the beginning sunset are a marvelous backdrop, but Patrick barely has an eye for nature’s beauty. Pete is wearing these tiny swim trunks again, his golden skin glistening from the water, all hot and already half a shade darker from all the sunbathing. Patrick motions Pete to turn around, licks over the salty remains of the ocean from Pete’s throat. One hand grabs Pete’s waist, the other is lifting off the edge of the pink fabric that barely covers any skin to begin with to lodge his dick between Pete’s firm ass cheeks.

“Careful,” Pete coos sweetly as he balances himself against one of the palm trees, “if I get the trunks dirty, I’ll need to buy them...”

“I’ll buy them for you then,” Patrick growls, tongue trailing over the black ink on Pete’s neck, “I’ll, ah, I’ll buy you the whole damn collection if you want...”

Pete moans, arches his back for better access and presses his legs together for more friction; he lets Patrick rub his dick against and between his ass cheeks until Patrick comes all over Pete’s lower back and the expensive swim wear.

It’s still so damn satisfying to get what he wants – that being Pete, in every way possible.

Three days later, Patrick finds himself on the plane back home, Pete sitting to his right, flipping through the newest issue of Men’s Health. The wedding band on his left ring finger reflects the dawn of the new day shining through the small window of the plane. Patrick can’t help but stare as he fiddles with his own.

He’s really married to Pete Wentz.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, and welcome back! The boys are married, and surely, nothing can go wrong. Right?
> 
> Beta-read by the lovely Snitches, as always! Thanks so much!~  
The quote from the fake IG is once again from a Mitski song.

The honeymoon is over way too soon. Patrick would’ve loved another week or two to rest, relax, and preferably not have his days filled with reading through scripts and emails, having Hayley pose the two of them or just Pete alone for more commercialized photos.

Alas, the downside of the shotgun wedding is that there’s just no time to clear their schedules for much longer, so Patrick finds himself back in LA where Joe picks them up from the airport, with few words and his tight-lipped business smile.

The car ride is mostly silent, with Pete tapping on his phone and Patrick feeling increasingly weird. The man next to him is really his husband, and they're driving to what will be their shared home. Their shared _life_.

“Had a nice honeymoon?” Joe eventually asks, voice dripping with disapproval.

Pete doesn't seem to notice or care. “We had the best time ever,” he says with a sunny smile, “and Patrick, did you see? You look so cute with me on the Marco Marco photos! And that one Hayley took of us on the beach, that’s adorable, too!”

“I bet,” Joe mutters, barely audible. Pete doesn't comment on this sarcastic remark either.

Pete leans forward a little. “So, you’re Patrick’s servant?”

Pete is smiling like he just said the most normal thing in the world. Joe stares at him in the rear-view mirror in shock, and Patrick feels utterly embarrassed on Pete’s behalf while simultaneously angry on Joe’s.

“Okay, Pete, look,” Patrick says with all the patience he can muster, “Joe is my employee. Is that clear?”

“Employee, of course.” Pete repeats with a nod and a hint of embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I… I must’ve picked up that word from Jeremy. He always said he wasn't concerned with being politically correct.”

“Lovely.” Patrick scoffs as he tries not to picture what kind of upper class snob Pete’s ex must’ve been.

Joe shakes his head, then sighs and turns his attention back to the street, and Pete goes back to scrolling through his phone. Patrick looks at his hands in his lap, the little hint of gold on the right ring finger, and wonders how they’re already screwing up before even getting home from their honeymoon.

Once they’re deiving up the tree-lined private driveway, Pete looks up from his phone, and Patrick clears his throat. “Welcome home,” Patrick says while Joe opens the gate, revealing the large, French country-style estate tucked away in the greenery of Beverly Hills.

Turns out, downside of the shotgun wedding was also that Pete never even set foot into Patrick’s – well, _ their _ future home. It’s one of the estates Patrick inherited from his dad, who never even lived on the property himself, but it was just too beautiful to put it up for sale in a depressed real estate market. The European flair, the wide spaces and beautiful lighting, the 11,000 square feet of posh interior and exterior complete with a pool and a tennis court Patrick never uses…

Turns out, the downside of owning a spacious, grand home like this is feeling really, really alone when there’s no one to share the 8 bedrooms, 6 fireplaces, the fully-stocked bar and 14 bathrooms with.

“This is gorgeous!” A few feet away from the main entrance, Pete turns to Patrick, bleach-blond hair and bleached teeth matching the blinding white of the house’s walls. “You should carry me inside.”

“You’re my husband, not my bride,” Patrick mutters as he walks up to Pete, “and also, I don’t think I can carry you.”

Pete raises his brows, big brown eyes staring at Patrick with hurt. “Are you saying I’m fat?”

Patrick sighs, pushes up his glasses, and ignores how in the background, Joe chuckles. Joe, Marie, and their daughter live right across in the big guest house, and Patrick wishes Joe would go there and join his beautiful wife and daughter instead of watching Patrick fail at his pitiful attempt of a married life.

“What I’m saying is, you’re taller than me and unlike you, I don’t hit the gym every day. Sorry, but I can’t risk a back injury for some silly tradition.”

“It’s not silly,” Joe chimes in, “I carried Marie over the threshold! The picture is still hanging in our bedroom!”

Pete nods at Joe, tugs at Patrick’s shirt. “See? It would be romantic, and -”

“I said I can’t,” Patrick interrupts him, sends a glare to an unfazed Joe. Joe still seems free of any bad conscience, while Pete’s attitude has changed from the loud and spoiled brat act to being silent and pouting. But then Pete sneaks his hand into Patrick’s, and Patrick finds he can’t really stay mad for long with those eyes looking at him like that. Seems like Pete can pull his strings already.

Patrick squeezes Pete’s hand, sighs again. “Let’s walk in together, hand in hand,” he proposes, trying to smile. “That romantic enough?”

With a big grin, Pete nods, then pulls out his phone. “Excuse me, uh...”

“Joe,” Joe says as he steps closer, “Joe Trohman. But just Joe is enough. Sorry, I didn’t really introduce myself properly.”

He holds out his hand to Pete, who seems unreasonably delighted as he shakes Joe’s hand with a wide grin and a lot of enthusiasm. “Pleased to meet you, Joe.”

Joe shakes his hand while his face expresses the same confusion and irritation that Patrick is feeling right now, too. “Same? Uh, guess I’ll see you around, huh?”

“Sure.” Pete lets go of Joe’s hand, then holds up his phone. “Hey, Joe, would you mind taking a picture of us as we walk into the house? Now, make sure you get our hands in the shot...”

It’s just a few well-known steps with a new hand holding on to his, then Patrick is inside the house that he’s now sharing with a damn trophy husband, befitting for the beautiful and expensive property on Beverly Hills.

Joe hands Pete his phone back, and the door falls shut behind them. Patrick clears his throat.

“Don’t be rude to Joe again.”

Pete looks up from his phone, with genuine guilt carving wrinkles on his pretty face. “I didn’t mean it! It was just... Please don’t be mad.”

“I'm not mad. Just don’t do it again. Joe’s a great guy.” Patrick clears his throat. “And, uh, not to contradict myself, but… It’s really difficult to find good staff.”

Pete nods, and Patrick makes a mental note to apologize to Joe, and to keep an eye on Pete’s behavior. The ex sounds like a typical awful old money guy already, who knows what other influences he's had.

They’ve reached the open kitchen with the adjourning dining room; wide, spacious, and pristine-looking not only because the cleaning staff at the agency Patrick’s hired are worth their money, but also because no one really uses it.

Pete eyes the uselessly giant fridge, the tasteful marble counters, the designer lamp shades that Patrick had to wait 16 weeks for delivery. “Who else have you hired?”

“Well, there’s Joe, I’ve got a maid service to keep the house clean and do the laundry, and a gardener dropping by twice a week.” Patrick fiddles with the hem of his cardigans, nervous when he notices Pete’s expectant eyes. “Uh, that’s it, really.”

There seem to be a lot of questions on the tip of Pete’s tongue. “Frugal,” is all Pete says in reply – probably the nicest thing he could think of.

“Look, I got money now, but I didn’t grow up super rich.” Patrick crosses his arms as he leans against the kitchen counter. “I mostly lived with my mom, and yeah, my dad made the big bucks, but he wasn’t willing to give a lot of it to her. That’s why I inherited pretty much all of his estate when he passed away.”

Pete cocks his head, sends him a sympathetic smile. “Sorry for your loss.”

“It’s fine,” Patrick mumbles quietly, “it’s been three years, and really, we’ve never been close anyway. He was too busy with work, touring, and divorcing my mom…”

Still smiling, Pete leans closer to him. “Sorry, what was that?”

Patrick feels the corner of his mouth twitch, and not for a smile. There’s word vomit in the back of his throat, burning and begging to be spat out in the form of long-winded whining. Patrick swallows it back down, because he doesn't think that his bleach-blond model trophy husband has a particular interest in his newly-wed husband’s childhood issues. He forces himself to smile back, and says: “Nothing. Forget it.”

Pete looks slightly confused, but he doesn’t press the issue.

“Anyway. If you want a glass of milk from the fridge or whatever, I’m afraid you’ll have to use your own delicate hands.” Patrick points towards said fridge.

“That’s alright. I’m not a hand model anyway,” Pete says sweetly, like that’s the most normal reply. “Hey, what about food? You got a personal chef?”

Patrick shakes his head. “No, but I got some good takeout on speed dial.”

Pete clicks his tongue in disapproval, rests his chin on his hand as he thinks about the issue for a moment. Then, he looks at Patrick with wide eyes, batting his lashes. “I know some great people with good recommendations...”

“We are not hiring a personal chef.”

The pout on Pete’s lip does look pretty, but it still won’t change Patrick’s mind. He really doesn't want to deal with yet another new person in his - or, well, _ their _ home, and if he’s being realistic – albeit, cynical, too – he can imagine what sort of food Pete would demand, anyway. Probably some sort of special model diet, whatever the fuck that would be.

“I could ask my nutritionist if she can recommend some alternatives? Some personal chefs deliver home-made meals, or cook a menu for the week in advance, we’d only have to heat it up.” Again, Pete is saying that like it’s the most normal thing to have a nutritionist. Well, maybe that’s the life of a model. Patrick has and still is enjoying the benefits, so maybe, it’s time to pay the price for it. Metaphorically and literally.

“Fine, I guess.” Patrick suspects he might be saying that a lot in the future.

Pete grins, all white teeth and crinkled eye corners (that Patrick is sure he’ll soon pay for to be kept young and pretty-looking with Botox, or whatever else the beauty industry is using these days). What must that be like, to be this beautiful and charming and always get what you want?

While Patrick is neither of the first two things, he does sling an arm around Pete’s waist, and gets what he wants – a kiss to Pete’s cheek, followed by a small giggle from Pete who turns to him to lean in for a more passionate kiss on the mouth. It feels good, it feels really, really good, so who is he to blame Pete to use all the assets nature has blessed him with to experience this satisfaction as often as possible?

Pete’s hand finds Patrick’s, squeezes it lightly, almost a shy gesture from someone as loud and extroverted as Pete. “Does that bother you?” Pete asks as he squeezes Patrick’s hand again. The wedding band on his left ring finger clanks against Patrick’s when he does so.

Patrick smiles to himself, and answers: “Not at all.”

“So, you don’t mind me doing this?” Pete turns his head again, pecks a quick kiss to Patrick’s blushing cheeks just like Patrick did a moment ago.

“Not at all,” Patrick repeats, slightly irritated. “Pete, what’s your deal? If anything bothers you, just say so, and I’ll leave you alone until it’s time to fake something for your Instagram-followers or whatever.”

Pete looks at him with big, brown eyes, and he might be a bad actor, but he can really nail the innocent, doe-eyed expression. “Oh, no, I’m not bothered. I think I could get used to this. Jeremy was just never very handsy...”

There it is again, the dreaded comparison to the ex. Maybe it’s yet another clever trick Pete is pulling to get what he wants from Patrick. If so, it’s totally working, because Patrick, ever the fool, finds himself hurrying to say: “I’m not like him. I’ll give you – I’ll give you all the kisses and anything else you could want, okay?”

It might be pathetic, and Patrick’s voice might sound a little desperate, sure. But the hurt pride over almost-begging Pete to favor him over his ex doesn’t outweigh Patrick’s competitive need to be better than Pete’s last husband.

Pete kisses him again, maybe because he’s really growing to like it, maybe because he wants to test his boundaries with Patrick, see how soft and compliant he can get his new spouse to be. Well, but Patrick’s got this handsome husband in his arms, kissing him like he means it, really, what’s the harm in believing?

They inspect the rest of the house together, hand in hand, and perhaps, Patrick likes that little clanking sound of their wedding bands against each other a little too much.

“Who’s your interior designer?” Pete asks as they wander through the living room, and towards the garden.

“Uh, no one, really?” Patrick shrugs. “It’s one of my dad’s properties, I didn’t change much. I had Joe’s wife do some of the redecorating, she’s great at her job.”

“Awesome, you mind if I talk to her about some changes around the house?” Pete looks at him expectantly, grinning with delight when Patrick just shrugs again, and nods. He’s never much cared for decorating, he has his home studio set up and that’s really all that matters to him. And, well, he’s already expected Pete to be the type who spends a lot of time and effort on stuff like searching for the perfect couch or finding the hippest, newest piece of furniture as the perfect background piece for his selfies. 

“You’ll have the left wing all to yourself,” Patrick says as he puts a hand on the small of Pete’s back, gently guiding him towards his future territory. “I never used it anyway. Don’t worry, I had it all cleaned. 3 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms… You can access the garden as well.”

Pete looks at him funnily. “What do you mean, all to myself?”

“Look, I barely know you,” Patrick mumbles as they walk through the grand entrance hall, “I thought you’d like some personal space. Do whatever you want there, I don’t care, and as said, Marie will surely be happy to assist with decorating or whatever.”

Pete clears his throat. “We’ve been married for less than two weeks and you already want to kick me out of bed? I thought I kept you satisfied...”

“We still have the master bedroom, of course.” Patrick stops, gestures towards the hallway leading to the left wing of the house. It’s 3 spacious rooms, a gorgeous view of the estate, and the same French flair that the right wing, occupied by Patrick, has to offer. “Take it or leave it, up to you.”

In truth, Patrick has been afraid to be the one that gets rejected; maybe, the whole amazing sex-thing was just another ploy to con him into marriage. What if Pete doesn’t actually want to share a bed, what if the cuddles and the sex was the bait and now that Patrick’s hooked, Pete doesn't actually want any of that?

Silence lingers between them as Patrick, arms crossed now, waits for Pete’s reaction.

“I’ll take the left wing,” Pete says in an unusually quiet, almost shy voice. “And I’d love to share the master bedroom with you, babe.”

“Good, then it’s settled.” With that, Patrick heads through the living room towards the garden, followed by Pete.

“You play tennis?” Pete asks excitedly as they walk over the perfectly trimmed grass, past the swimming pool and towards the tennis court. “I love tennis!”

Patrick shakes his head. “I don’t like tennis. You’re free to play, but you’ll need to invite your friends or a trainer or whatever.”

Again, Pete sends him a funny look, but Patrick can’t find anything weird in his words. Pete can’t be seriously disappointed that the completely pale, chubby dude with weak arms doesn’t use his own tennis court, right?

There’s no time to dwell on it, because Pete jerks his head towards the garage. “How many cars do you own?”

A minute later, they stand in front of Patrick’s prized Maserati GranCabrio MC, an Italian masterpiece and convertible with sleek design, dynamic curves, 460 HP, just a dream of a classy car come true. Pete hums in appreciation as he lightly traces over the engine cover. A beautiful model next to a beautiful sports car – it’s such a cliché, but for good reason. Patrick swallows, and looks down to his comfy velcro shoes. Is it rude to stare if the model is his own husband, who earns a living with fools like Patrick lusting after him?

“Ah, and a Tesla,” Pete says with a nod towards the SUV parked next to the sports car. The Tesla Model X is more toned-down and convenient, the newest technology all packed up into state-of-the-arts design. Pete’s hand lingers a little longer on the hood as he adds: “Y’know, they actually wanted me for a commercial once. I… I just wasn’t sure if it fits my image...”

Now, Patrick stares at him in disbelief. Sure, he doesn’t know much about modeling and maybe, a car commercial isn’t the peak of anyone’s career, yet Pete’s words make no sense to him. Patrick’s goddamn married to the guy, and he would still buy any car Pete’s trying to sell, or at least take a double-look at that bleach-blond hair caressed by the wind, sun-kissed skin perfect for any convertible, the casual yet eye-catching way Pete leans against the car like he’s showing off how his toned body matches the car’s streamlined design – fuck. Patrick blinks, tries to sort out his thoughts, before he speaks up: “I think it would fit you perfectly.”

“You think so?” Pete sounds unreasonably insecure, a side Patrick has never seen on him before. “But… They’d make me drive a Tesla, too. You wouldn’t get to choose a pretty new car for me!”

“All the better.” It might be best to hold back how little Patrick cares about what car his husband drives; and if he doesn't have to pay for it, well, that’s no disadvantage either. Not that Patrick can’t afford it, but he has the fleeting suspicion he will pay more than enough money for Pete’s various expenses already.

Pete cocks his head to the right, stares at the Model X with a thoughtful gaze, then looks back at Patrick, all traces of insecurity traded for his million-dollar smile again. “I’ll ask my agent about it. Good thing I married such a smart and considerate man!”

“Yeah, sure,” Patrick mumbles without really believing Pete’s or even his own words.

After a tour through the house, they end up in the master bedroom. More precisely, on the King-sized bed, naked, with Pete on all fours and Patrick buried to the hilt inside of him. Fuck, Patrick is so happy that the sex wasn’t just something to lure him into marriage. Pete is still a dream come true, gorgeous from every angle, and he feels so fucking good, sounds so goddamn hot when he moans and whines like this.

Pete’s hands are clutched into the Portuguese linen sheets, and Patrick fleetingly wonders if Pete can come just like this, untouched, like he did in the leaked sex tape Patrick used to watch when Pete was but a dream to be admired from far away.

Somehow, that thought was way more alluring when Pete wasn’t real, wasn’t his legally wed husband, and wasn’t more than just a convenient fantasy.

Before more of these unpleasant realizations can sneak up on him, Patrick decides to focus on the task on hand. “C’mon, babe,” he groans, “touch yourself...”

Pete does, very eagerly, and Patrick briefly wonders why he didn’t do so earlier, why Pete always seems to wait for approval. Then, Pete moans, clenches tight around Patrick’s cock as he tugs at his own hard dick, and Patrick stops thinking altogether. Just a few moments later, he’s coming already, a little sudden and a little too early for his liking, but it’s good nonetheless.

For a moment, he relishes in the afterglow, before he pulls out. Pete groans, he’s still on all fours, back arched, hand on his dick, a tempting sight that gives Patrick a tempting idea.

“Let me?” Patrick asks tentatively as he puts a hand on Pete’s waist, gesturing him to lay on his back. Pete’s brown eyes, overshadowed by damp black lashes, look at Patrick with such pleading desperation, and Pete’s dick, still in Pete’s hand, dark-red and curved against the ugly tattoo on Pete’s groin, looks painfully hard and sensitive. Pete moans loudly when Patrick leans forward to lick a quick stripe over the head.

“Oh fuck, babe, please!” Pete hurries to say in a greedy voice, and he lets go of his dick to grant Patrick’s lips and tongue better access. And when Patrick puts his mouth back on Pete’s dick, Pete sits up a little, lustful gaze fixed on Patrick, who usually doesn’t really like being watched – but, he reasons with himself, it’s still better than Pete leaning back and closing his eyes to imagine someone else.

“Careful, I can’t hold back much longer,” Pete chokes back a groan when the tip of his dick hits the back of Patrick’s throat. “Patrick, seriously…!”

Patrick keeps going, and Pete keeps mumbling his name in a broken, desperate voice before he finally comes. Patrick hears the familiar soft “oh” fall from Pete’s trembling lips, and tastes the familiar bitterness as he swallows. Afterwards, Patrick wipes over his mouth, then sinks into the cool pillows next to Pete.

“You swallowed,” Pete mumbles softly.

Patrick feels how he blushes, and reminds himself that Pete has no right to judge him. Pete’s the blond little pillow prince who swallowed Patrick’s load even before a wedding ring adorned his left ring finger. “What was I supposed to do? I already had it in my mouth, and I won’t spit it into the sheets we’ll sleep in later.”

“No, it’s just...” Pete hesitates, shakes his head. “It’s nothing. I like it.”

Patrick rolls his eyes. “Of course you do. Just like every other guy.”

For a moment, it looks like Pete wants to say something, but then he just smiles, and rests his head on Patrick’s chest. Not wanting any further discussions, Patrick stays silent as he puts an arm around Pete, and with a weirdly dark laugh in stark contrast to the usual giggling, Pete cuddles closer. A ray of the afternoon sun falls through the curtains, lets the naked curve of Pete’s shoulder glow golden, turns his bleach-blond hair into a bright halo.

“The sex tape. You saw it, didn’t you?” Pete doesn't look at him when he asks that.

At first, Patrick considers denying; but even though he’s an award-winning voice actor, he doubts he can pull off that lie. “I did,” he answers nervously. The silence lingering between them now feels heavy and uncomfortable. “I’m sorry?” Patrick offers weakly, another lie he doubt he can sell. It’s not like there’s an etiquette guide on how to deal with your trophy husband’s past sex life.

For a moment, Pete remains quiet. When he lifts his head to look at Patrick, his usual million-dollar smile is just the slightest bit off. “I looked so pretty, didn’t I?”

“You did,” Patrick mumbles as he runs a hand through Pete’s short hair. He’s not sure if that’s the right answer (if there even is one), and Pete doesn’t say anything further. He just rests his head on Patrick’s chest again, and Patrick keeps running his hand through his hair, and watches as the stray beam of sunlight dances on Pete’s body.

Next morning – well, it’s noon, really – Patrick’s still in his pajamas as he shuffles down to the kitchen, where he finds Pete already up, way too energetic, and complaining about the food.

“_Cereal_,” Pete reiterates, “that’s not appropriate.”

Patrick gestures towards the high-end stove. “Feel free to cook.”

Pete makes a face, like that’s something other people – servants, his ex would no doubt call them – are supposed to do for him, remarks how he will definitely ask his nutritionist and maybe also his personal trainer about alternative solutions and then he pecks a quick kiss to Patrick’s forehead. Patrick mumbles something snarky in return, which Pete ignores, and then he’s off to do whatever, Patrick admits he hasn’t really listened.

With Pete gone, the spacious kitchen suddenly feels a lot emptier and eerily quiet.

The silence is interrupted by Patrick’s phone ringing. He picks up, muttering: “Why do you have to call me so early in the morning?”

“Because we both know you’ll never answer my messages in time.” Bob clears his throat, then ratters off the list of things he deems important – Patrick’s social profiles went up, they still want him for that Indie Awards-bait movie and booked studio time, a Disney might cast him for a small role in a TV-series, “oh, and you have a 4 o’clock with Pete’s new agent.”

“I – what?” Patrick almost chokes on his cereal. “Bob, what the fuck?”

“Well, new old agent, really – Pete’s switching back to him. The guy insisted,” Bob says nonchalantly, “and hey, I figured you might be paying his salary for now, given that this husband of yours is still struggling, might as well see if he’s worth the money.”

The silver spoon loudly clanks against the $350 designer pottery bowl as Patrick angrily answers: “Isn’t this shit part of your job?”

Bob clicks his tongue. “He wanted to see you first. Look, Patrick, I promise I’ll deal with the dude afterwards, but you’ll need to play your part first. 4 o’clock, your place.”

Patrick isn’t sure whether to be angry that some model agent he’s never met is invading his home, or happy that he doesn’t have to suffer through a business lunch with said guy. He stays quiet as Bob keeps talking, and wonders why Pete hasn’t mentioned anything this morning. Maybe, this is his punishment for not providing an appropriate breakfast.

At 4 o’clock sharp, the interface announces a visitor.

Pete’s agent is dressed in a tailored suit, smart and business-like, rather conservative – he’s probably leaving the fashion experimenting to his clients. Taller than Patrick and even Pete, tanned, lean figure, full hair slicked back, Patrick bets his right hand that this man not only supports his clients lying about their age, but isn’t honest about his own either. If Patrick were to guess, he’s somewhere in his 50s, signs of his age only visible on the wrinkled back of his hands and the way the skin on his forehead is stretched a little too taught over his skull. Still good-looking, in a sort of B-list George Clooney way; if his clients need to suck his dick to get him to represent them, at least they don’t need to close their eyes. Suddenly, Patrick wonders how Pete – no. Best not to think of it.

“Just Robert,” he insists with a small professional smile over a firm handshake. He’s not wearing a wedding ring.

Patrick takes the offered hand with as much a professional smile as he can muster. He guides Robert to the well-stocked bar, and Robert accepts the offer of a bourbon.

“Don’t you have someone to man the bar?”

Patrick shakes his head. “Right now, I don’t.”

Technically, he could ask Joe to pour him drinks but honestly, he’d rather not have Joe’s judgmental eyes on him right now. It does have its disadvantages to be so informal with his employee.

Robert raises one eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything further. It’s clear he’s used to pretty waiters/actor/models serving him his drinks, probably with a side of that blowjob that Patrick needs to stop thinking about if he doesn’t want that bile taste of jealousy ruining his own drink. It's just a stupid cliche, and besides, Pete has money now to get what he wants.

Patrick clears his throat, fidgets with the vintage Steuben tumbler in his hand. Robert takes a sip of his bourbon, then finally speaks up.

“As you may know, Pete has asked me to represent him again. Now, I have faith in Pete. If not, I never would’ve agreed to consider taking him back. But his last husband was rather insistent on… Helping out with career choices. I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Stump – I’m damn good at my job. So I don’t need anyone else butting in. When it comes to Pete’s professional path, I’m not going to compete with anyone else. That good with you? Because if not, I’m out.”

“Well, uh, Robert, I’m sure you’re the best,” Patrick answers awkwardly; this whole situation feels weird. “I have my own career to manage, and very little interest or knowledge of Pete’s profession – I’m clearly not a model.” Patrick laughs awkwardly. Robert just keeps staring at him, manicured fingers drumming on the expensive marble counter plate of the bar. “What I mean is, I’ll leave Pete’s career to himself,” Patrick hurries to say, “if he thinks you’re a good fit, that’s his choice. And whenever there’s anything that might be mutually beneficial for both our professional paths, just go talk to Bob. He’s my manager, and for a good reason, I might add.”

It’s a little on the nose, yet Robert neither seems insulted over the subtle hint that he’s not exactly welcome, nor bothered the implication that Patrick doesn’t care all that much how Pete chooses to manage his own career. Instead, Robert takes another small sip of his drink, deep blue eyes fixed on Patrick.

“How convenient that you bring it up,” Robert says after he put his glass down, “that Tesla ad, they want you, too. To do the voice-over.”

Patrick feels his cheeks redden with anger. “I’m a two-time Grammy winning voice actor. The movies I’m in, they win _ awards_. And now you’re saying I’m supposed to do a car commercial?”

“Wouldn’t that be a good sell? The power couple working together?” Robert keeps staring at him, and there’s a hint of aggression in his voice that Patrick can’t quite explain. “Pete is very excited about this offer, and it would be a shame to pass on it – again.”

Why does Patrick get the impression that Pete’s manager is testing him? Whatever the reason, Patrick has the suspicion that “no” is not an option. Pete needs the job, and Patrick doesn’t need a lecture from Bob about passing on opportunities or the value of a marriage of convenience. Patrick also suspects that “no” is a word that Robert doesn’t get to hear very often in general.

“Fine,” Patrick hears himself say, “I’ll do it.”

Pete’s agent visibly relaxes, and rewards Patrick with another professional smile.

“You can go over the details with my manager,” Patrick hurries to add, before Robert can speak up again, “who, by the way, will be the one you’re talking to for job offers from now on.”

Robert seems to get the clue, and a few politely empty phrases and a handshake later, he’s out the door, leaving Patrick wondering what exactly just happened. Good looks or not, there’s something in Pete’s agent’s attitude that makes Patrick forget his initial jealousy. He didn’t really come off as the kind of agent who wants to make sure Patrick doesn’t interrupt any blowjobs he might be soliciting from his clients. Nothing went wrong, and yet…

Patrick sighs to himself.

Perhaps, the whole trophy husband deal isn’t as easy as he thought.

  


Later that day, said trophy husband is sitting in their bed, naked and grinning as Patrick rubs a wet washcloth over his sweaty skin.

“Next time,” Patrick breaks the silence, “you could tell me yourself when your agent is coming over.”

“Ah, right! You two met today!” Pete gazes at him with those beautiful eyes as Patrick wipes away a streak of cum from Pete’s chest. “Robert is great. He always got me the best offers. He just insisted to get to know you.”

“But why?” Patrick inquires, slightly confused.

“Why?” Pete’s expression is perfectly innocent. “Because we will work together, babe.”

That makes sense, although Patrick can’t quite shake off the feeling that there’s something a little weird about this. And it’s not the same as the burst of jealousy from earlier, it’s something different, something Patrick can’t quite put his finger on.

Patrick puts the damp washcloth on the nightstand, then turns back to Pete who looks at him expectantly, and asks: “How did it go?”

“Fine,” Patrick answers, still with the notion that something is a bit off. Pete’s smile is a tad forced, his brows are slightly furrowed, the picture-perfect glamorous illusion is slipping up just a little. “Really, it went fine,” Patrick adds nervously, unsure of how to deal with this, “I agreed to take the Tesla deal. Also, what you do with your career is your business. That’s what I told your agent as well.“

That seems to have been the right answer, because Pete relaxes, his smile widening as he chirps: “Oh, so we’ll be working together soon! That will be fun, right?”

“Sure,” Patrick mumbles; he doesn’t know what was wrong just now, but he also doesn’t know what to say either. There wasn’t any screaming, there wasn’t any fighting, just mundane talk about work and the hint of a vague bad feeling that Patrick doesn’t know how to address.

And when Pete lays down next to him, still smiling brightly, all sunshine and happiness and bleached teeth, Patrick doesn’t feel like talking anymore. Instead, he lays down next to Pete, hugs him close and pushes away all the bad thoughts. It’s easier to pretend with his very real trophy husband in his arms. 

And when Pete hugs him back, Patrick can almost believe everything is fine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!~
> 
> I know nothing about cars (nor do I really care much about cars) and this isn't supposed to actually advertise for Tesla or anything. I just whatever car Patrick actually drives and went with all the advice the lovely Snitches provided.
> 
> And surely, everything is fine and nothing is wrong and there's no need to worry, right? Why are you looking at me like that...?
> 
> See you all next week!~


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, and welcome back to the trophy husband AU! Today, all we have is happiness and nothing suspicious or worrisome at all. 
> 
> Thanks to Snitches for beta reading, and thank you all for commenting and supporting me! :)

Pete has made good on his word, and hired Marie for the remodeling.

The days are now filled with Pete and Marie going over a dozen shades of white, two catalogs of wallpapers, endless trips to furniture stores, the contractor visiting… Patrick stays away, and he doesn’t get to see much of Pete, which doesn't bother him much given that all Pete is talking about these days is expensive interior design. At least it seems Pete hasn’t offended Marie yet, and Joe is a bit more sympathetic to him now that Pete’s gotten Joe’s wife a lucrative deal.

New things are sneaking into Patrick’s everyday life. Pete’s clothes in the master bedroom, his fitness supplements lined up on the kitchen counter, the healthy, high-end California Chef meals – breakfast, lunch, and dinner, the whole package – neatly packed away and stacked in the fridge, photos of their wedding framed and arranged in the living room.

Patrick has to admit, some stuff is rather nice, like the meal delivery, or how he gets to kiss his supermodel husband goodnight in their shared bedroom, or how enthusiastic Pete is about giving blowjobs anywhere and anytime Patrick wants it. He hopes that part of their relationship will survive a little longer.

Right now, Patrick is at breakfast, enjoying the spinach omelet and oatmeal muffin. He won’t admit it but damn, it’s really much better than cereal.

Pete steps behind him, rests his chin on Patrick’s right shoulder. “Did you see what I posted to my Instagram story?”

Patrick pushes his empty plate away, shakes his head. “I don’t really keep up, sorry. I’ve got Ryan to handle all that online presence and social media stuff for me.”

“You should look,” Pete says with a giggle as he puts his arms around Patrick. Now, Patrick might not be interested in keeping up to date, but Pete is asking so nicely, and he’s hugging him so affectionately, how can Patrick ruin the moment?

After some fumbling with his phone, Patrick manages to get to Pete’s IG story. First one is an outtake from the swimsuit shot, a picture of his Starbucks order – but the third one is Pete in a bathtub, obviously naked, his lower body hidden under the foam. Still, his smooth, wet chest and nipples are clearly visible, and he’s looking into the camera with big eyes and his tongue stuck out in a gesture that could be interpreted both as rebellious brat, or horny trophy husband. “_breaking in the new bathtub_,” the caption reads, “_test drive before @PatrickMVStump joins me xxx_”

“Sweet, right?” Pete giggles again, which is really starting to get on Patrick’s nerves. “I took that one for you...”

“Yeah, that’s why you shared it with the public.” Patrick puts the phone down, rolls his eyes.

“Hey, showing off the goods is part of my job, babe.” Pete hugs him tighter, his bleach-blond hair tickling Patrick’s neck. “But, y’know, you’re the only one invited to join me in the bathtub...”

Patrick makes a vaguely affirmative grunt while his brain is already busy with picturing Pete, wet and naked, among the white, scented foam – they’ve shared the Jacuzzi in their honeymoon suite, and Patrick is absolutely down to do that again.

Before he can say so, the cry of a baby captures their attention. It’s nothing new, given that Joe and his family live on property, but usually, little Rose stays with Marie or a sitter when Joe’s working, and Patrick hasn’t seen all that much of her.

“I am so sorry,” they hear a female voice say, “Pete, didn’t you get my text? The sitter canceled, I have to watch Rose today...” Marie enters the kitchen, dressed in business attire safe for the colorful piece of cloth over her shoulder that her crying toddler is currently salivating into.

Honestly, Patrick is a tiny bit disappointed that the mood has been killed by a screaming kid that isn’t even theirs. Meanwhile, Pete seems to have no such regrets.

“Is that your little baby girl?” Pete half-screams over Rose’s crying. At almost one-and-a-half years old, Rose is hardly a little baby anymore, but that doesn’t seem to matter to Pete.

“She’s not at her best behavior,” Marie answers in a loud, apologetic voice. “Given that we’re neighbors, I thought I owe it to you to cancel in person, at least.”

Patrick has the distant feeling her apology hasn’t been heard. Pete lets go of him, eyes now fixed on the crying little bundle over Marie’s shoulder. “She’s so cute! Can I hold her?”

“Right now, I’m inclined to say you can keep her.” Marie, visibly relieved, carefully hands Pete the whining toddler, instructs him on hold to hold her right, and sighs. “I’m sorry, she’s really fussy today.”

“Oh, no, she’s a cutie! Who’s a cutie?” Pete looks at the red-faced, teary-eyed toddler with awe, and he doesn’t even seem to mind that she’s getting snot and spit all over his vintage Metallica Tour shirt. “Who’s a cute little baby? _ You’re _ a cute little baby! I’m Pete, your mommy’s friend! Your mommy has the best taste ever, and she’s going to make this house so beautiful...”

Pete keeps babbling on, not bothered by the crying and hiccups or the aforementioned snot and tears. Marie sighs again, offers Patrick an apologetic look as she sits down next to him. “Is this okay with you?” Patrick asks with uncertainty while gesturing towards Pete, who is still babbling as he carries the toddler through the spacious kitchen.

“No offence, but I’ll totally use your husband for entertaining Rose for as long as the novelty hasn’t worn off.” She smiles wearily. “And hey, he looks strong enough to carry her around for a few more hours.”

“Totally,” Pete chides in, “and really, she’s such an adorable kid. I want one myself one day...” Pete smiles sweetly at the toddler in his arms. Something cold settles in Patrick’s chest.

Before Patrick can say anything, Joe walks into the kitchen, playing with the car keys in his hand. “Patrick, we’re good to go – woha,” Joe interrupts himself when he sees Pete, “dude, did you get her to stop crying?”

Pete stops babbling and pacing the kitchen, looks at the sleepy toddler in his arms that has gone quiet now, only letting out an occasional sob. “Oh hey, yeah, I think I did,” he says both with surprise and pride.

Joe walks over to him, gently strokes over his daughter’s tear-streaked, chubby cheek, then pats Pete on the shoulder. “Thanks so much – she was driving us crazy all night and all morning. Also, that’s an awesome shirt you got there.”

Pete is practically beaming. “Thanks!” He exclaims, only to be shushed by Joe, who gestures towards the almost-asleep Rose. “I can totally carry her for a bit longer,” Pete continues more quietly, nods towards Marie. “We can still keep the appointment with the contractor, and go through that last furniture catalog one more time – I mean, if that’s alright with you...” He looks at Patrick when he asks that question, for whatever reason.

“Hey, it’s not my child, and not my appointment,” Patrick quickly points out, hands raised defensively, “so don’t ask me.”

“I’m on board,” Marie says when Pete turns to her, and even the formerly skeptical Joe nods, adds: “If you want to carry her around all day, be my guest.”

Pete nods towards Joe and Marie, then turns to Patrick, with that same sweet, dreamy smile from before. The one that makes Patrick shudder, especially when it’s paired with what Pete says next. “Wouldn’t you love to have a kid or two as well, babe?”

Somewhere thirty-ish years ago, Patrick can clearly picture his father sitting in his place, his mother holding a friend’s baby as she says the same thing to the man she calls her husband, but not her love. He’s sure his father nodded, because a baby sounds good, it sounds like white picket fences and happy family life, and it’s easier to give in than to admit the failure of their half-dead marriage.

Patrick sure won’t repeat that mistake.

He doesn't really have the courage to tell Pete that, right here, right now, in front of Joe and Marie and their cute little baby daughter. So, Patrick shrugs, without looking into Pete’s excited eyes.

And then Pete and Marie are off to talk about the use of space or dimmer settings or whatever else interior designers talk about with their clients.

“Looks like your husband has some hidden qualities,” Joe remarks as they walk to the car, and it’s the first time Patrick’s heard Joe use the word husband in relation to Pete without any sort of sarcasm or disapproval.

Patrick sighs, and says nothing.

It’s a sunny afternoon two days later when Patrick meets one of Pete’s friends for the first time. A bright-red Audi R8 convertible is parked in the driveway (badly so, taking up way too much space, Joe would do a much better job) and there’s noise coming from the garden – the tennis court, to be precise. Patrick rolls his eyes; would it kill Pete to let him know when someone is coming over? He considers just going inside and avoiding any social interaction, but decides he doesn’t need to add “total social failure and embarrassment” to the already quite long list of his disadvantages.

He spots Pete first, decked out in all-white sports attire, looking better sweating into athletic clothes than anyone has the right to. The bright-white clothes are a captivating contrast to the gold and black of his naked arms and legs, and the first two buttons of his polo shirt are undone, revealing just a tiny peek of more tan skin and tattoos.

On the other side of the court, Patrick can make out Pete’s opponent in this match, and damn. The man is very tall, easily over 6 feet, all of it long limbs and a toned body with muscle mass that rivals Pete’s. He’s wearing similar clothes to Pete, except his polo shirt has a bold streak of color over the chest, repeated in the hem of his white sport shorts and his sweatbands.

Patrick leans against the fence, glad for the shadows that the nearby trees are providing him with. He is pasty-white, sweaty from the hot LA afternoon without even participating in any sports, and with one look at Pete’s and very tall guy’s muscular arms and legs, he deeply regrets thinking shorts and a t-shirt were a wise decision. He wishes for a cardigan, long pants, and maybe five extra inches of body height. He watches as they finish their set (which Pete is losing), then Pete spots him, and a moment later, Patrick has a laughing, sweaty Pete in his arms.

“Welcome home, babe,” Pete coos, flashing his white teeth matching the white of his clothes. “Gabe, say hello to my husband!”

The other man strolls over to them, elegant and not even out of breath despite just having played at least one set of tennis in the burning sun. Fuck, he’s a giant, towering over both Patrick and his grinning husband, holds out a hand to Patrick and says in a smooth, cool voice: “Gabe. _ The _ Gabe Saporta. Nice to meet you.”

“Patrick Stump. Nice to meet you, too,” Patrick says awkwardly as he runs through the rather short list of names of people he knows. Gabe’s name does not ring a bell.

“Say, where’s your pool boy? No one has served us drinks yet.” Gabe looks around, like he might catch sight of said pool boy hiding somewhere in the neatly-trimmed bushes.

“I don’t have a pool boy,” Patrick answers, “you’ll need to help yourself to a drink.”

Gabe rolls his eyes in a very dramatic and only semi-ironic manner. “What do you have all this money for, if not to spend it?!”

Patrick forces himself to smile and say nothing. No way he can admit to the tall, tanned, athletic stranger that he hasn’t really ever used the pool in the first place. The pool combines three of Patrick’s least favorite things: Guaranteed sunburn, sports, and being undressed. Not to mention that he’s never even thought about using the damn tennis court.

Pete tugs at his shirt, still grinning. “Babe, you wanna watch us play?”

“Not really,” Patrick admits, because sure, Pete looks hot, but standing around sweating and watching him play a game Patrick only knows the most rudimentary rules of doesn't sound like much fun. He married Pete to not have to awkwardly stand around hot guys not noticing him anymore, didn’t he?

“Maybe another time,” Gabe says, like he’s the one who gets to decide, “give me a few weeks, and Pete’s back in shape to stand a chance against the great Saporta.”

Finally, Patrick thinks he’s figured it out. “Oh, so you’re the coach?”

Gabe laughs out loud, puts a hand on Pete’s shoulder as he leans down and chuckles: “Your husband is adorable.” He then turns to Patrick, who’s only the tiniest bit angry and jealous that Gabe actually has to bow down to be on eye level to him. “Honey, I’m not just some coach. I’m a serious tennis player.”

“Good for you,” Patrick says without really meaning it. He doesn’t really know what to make of Gabe.

Gabe laughs again. “Pete and I are just old friends and model colleagues, catching up. I throw in some tennis coaching for free. And maybe a little modeling gig...” Gabe points to his shirt. “Yeah, I also got my own exclusive line of sports attire. I’ve been wanting your hubby to model them forever! His rejection hurts my feelings!”

Patrick looks at Pete, who’s suddenly quiet as he keeps staring at the dirtied white canvas sneakers on his feet. Gabe turns around to get back on the field, but instead of joining him, Pete leans closer to Patrick, head still turned down. There’s something weird going on that Patrick can’t quite put his finger on.

Patrick sighs, and whispers: “Could you let me know next time someone’s coming over?”

Finally, Pete looks up. “Hm? Sorry, what was that?”

“I said, let me know next time someone’s coming over. I live here, too.”

Pete bats his lashes, back to being playful. “If I don’t tell you, you can’t say no.”

“Why would I say no?” Patrick asks somewhat irritated.

Instead of an answer, Pete just kisses him, then he’s back on the tennis court. Patrick tries not to think about why everytime he talks to his trophy husband, he feels like he understands Pete even less.

Back inside the house, Patrick tells himself his time would be best used working. Being in the calm, orderly presence of his home studio usually helps to shut off the loud outside world, except today, not even his noise-canceling headphones can tune out what’s running through Patrick’s head. He abandons work in favor of fumbling with his phone, and scrolling through social media. Pete’s Instagram story already has a picture of Gabe and him, and Patrick taps to see Gabe’s tagged profile. It’s full of tennis-related photos of course, showing off important-looking medals Gabe once won as well as teasing the new collection of tennis attire. In between that are photos of Gabe and his wife, who’s apparently involved with fashion as well, and Gabe with clients. Pete isn’t among the more recent ones, which must be because he was too busy with the divorce and living out of a suitcase in hotels he couldn’t really afford.

Patrick sighs to himself, and decides to get a snack. All by himself, and without the help of a pool boy. He gently puts his expensive Sennheiser headphones away before leaving his studio.

He makes it to the kitchen, where he finds Gabe next to a sniffling Pete fumbling with a blood-soaked tissue.

Anxiously, Patrick rushes over to them. “Pete! Are you alright?”

“Pete tripped. Scraped his knees. See, that’s what you need a pool boy for,” Gabe philosophies, “ideally, one who’s a trained lifeguard, of course -”

“Just go get the first aid-kit,” Patrick interrupts him while he keeps patting Pete’s back. Mostly because he doesn't know what else to do. “It should be in the bathroom first door to the left.”

With a huff, Gabe follows Patrick’s instructions, leaving Patrick behind with a very quiet, very distressed looking Pete.

“I’m okay,” Pete whispers, even though clearly, he is not. Brows furrowed, head lowered, and Patrick could swear he sees tears in Pete’s narrowed eyes. It’s just a couple of scratches, right? Pete can’t be that hurt, can he?

Patrick takes the dirty tissue from Pete, and presses some fresh paper towels onto the small abrasion on Pete’s knee. It’s nothing too bad, but it will take a couple of days to heal, and suddenly Patrick realizes why Pete must be so tense.

“Is this about the Tesla shoot?”

“We already had the wardrobe check,” Pete mumbles, “I know I’m wearing long pants, they’ll cover the injury. It’s just – it’s…”

Patrick waits for him to finish the sentence. Instead, Pete just shakes his head, and lets out a deep breath. It’s a lot of drama for a scraped knee that won’t even show up on camera.

Well, Pete seems stressed enough already, so Patrick considers it best to try the supportive, understanding route. He puts a hand under Pete’s chin, gently guides Pete to look at him.

“Hey, Pete. Listen to me. Don’t worry. You’ll do a great job with the Tesla commercial, okay? I know you will. A couple of scratches won’t stop you.”

There’s still hurt in Pete’s eyes, but there’s hope in his voice when he asks: “You really think so?”

“Of course I do.” Patrick doesn’t even need to think twice; whatever he might think about Pete, he knows the guy is a natural in front of the camera, there’s a reason he’s 36 and still working in one of the most ruthless, superficial businesses. Plus after he’s seen Pete next to his own cars, Patrick is absolutely certain Pete will sell _ any _ car with ease.

Pete puts his hand over Patrick’s, laces their fingers together, and there’s the dawn of a sincere smile starting to overshadow the harsh wrinkles that the worries curved into his pretty face. “Thanks,” he says, “you’re so sweet to me, babe.”

“Yeah,” Patrick mumbles, uncertain if he can really accept this compliment. “And who knows, maybe you’ll beat Gabe next time.”

“Probably not.” Pete shrugs. “Gabe’s still fucking good, and I’m a little out of practice, and… Whatever. It’s about fun, right?”

Patrick sighs as he dabs away the last bit of blood. “Don’t ask me about any kind of sport being fun. There, I think the wound stopped bleeding. You’re… You’re a bit clumsy sometimes, aren’t you?”

Pete blinks, then playfully puts a finger to his lips to mimic secrecy. “Yeah, got me there. You won’t tell anyone, right?”

Patrick chuckles softly. “It’ll stay between us.”

That moment, Gabe returns with the first-aid kit, and Joe in tow.

“Someone’s hurt?” Joe asks, alarmed, while Patrick can’t help but glare at Gabe.

“Pete fell down,” Patrick answers Joe, then turns to Gabe. “Hey, I could’ve handled that on my own. I just asked you for the first-aid kit! And please don’t ask me if Joe is my pool boy.”

Gabe holds up his hands, although he doesn't look very apologetic. “Alright, alright – God, Pete, I don’t know why you always have such a thing for these choleric guys. Is that your way to work through some daddy issues?”

“I am not a choleric,” Patrick says with maybe a little too much anger in his voice to prove his point, “can we just – focus on Pete?”

“I’ll do it,” Joe raises a hand, takes the first-aid kit from Gabe, “I took a first-aid class.”

Patrick rolls his eyes; why is no one trusting him to care for his own damn husband? “Yeah, two years back when Marie was pregnant.”

Joe sits down next to him. “And when’s the last time you took one? When you got your driver’s license?”

Gabe chuckles. “You let your butler talk to you like that?”

“Joe is not -” Patrick turns around, takes a deep breath, and reminds himself he won’t get played like this in front of other people, and he most definitely isn’t choleric. “You know what? Never mind.”

With Gabe still smirking at him, Patrick doesn't feel like he’s proven his point – or proven himself to be a worthy spouse.

“You’ll need to talk to him. Plain and simple.” Travie leans back, long legs stretched out, another weird and exotic craft beer in his hand.

Patrick needs some emotional backup, and his own friend isn’t providing any.

They have a table reserved at a restaurant Pete likes, just a casual dinner to introduce his new husband to an old friend. Pete has his first day on set, and Patrick would be very happy about that except he’s late and they might lose their table. They’re waiting at the bar for Pete to arrive, and Patrick has the distinct feeling that waiting for Pete be scenario he’ll grow very accustomed to.

“What’s there to talk about?” Patrick stares into his wine glass. The music is almost inaudible, as is the indistinct chatter of the people already seated. “Really, there’s… It was nothing. We didn’t fight or anything.”

“Then why are you upset?” Travie takes another sip of beer. “For someone freshly married to their very own trophy husband, you’re very tense. You two are still fucking, aren’t you? And you have that ad campaign together? Seems to be working exactly as it should be.”

Patrick sighs, fiddles with his phone. Now that Pete has mentioned the recent bathtub selfie to him, Patrick is looking at his phone a lot more, because usually, Pete always finds a way to capture his attention. Cheeky selfies, cute little captions, sometimes the peek of a little more sent to the public and then to Patrick in private. Patrick is still not big on staying up to date on the half a dozen platforms Pete posts to, but he has to admit, he rather likes it when Pete sends him a screenshot of his Snapchat story or latest Instagram post or most recent Tweet where he poses for an audience of a million strangers, and one husband.

Except right now, not a word from Pete. Annoyed, Patrick puts his phone down, and turns to Travie again. “You should get a trophy husband. You’d handle it much better.”

Travie raises his brows. “Because I’d know what I am getting into.”

“I knew too,” Patrick says with another sigh, feeling sort of guilty and foolish. “I should stop complaining.”

The arrival of the much talked-about trophy husband puts an end to their conversation. Patrick spots Pete immediately as he walks to the door. He turns to Travie, intending to point out that Pete’s finally here, but Travie is already staring at Pete.

“That him?”

“Yeah,” Patrick mumbles in response as his he keeps his eyes on Pete, watching him stroll through the restaurant like he’s on a red carpet. He’s just wearing a simple shirt and jeans, his black leather jacket slung over his shoulder, and yet he looks like he stepped out of a big movie set instead of a simple car commercial. Freshly-bleached hair, a winning smile, and an air of confidence that demands everyone’s attention even though he’s only waving at Patrick and Travie.

“Holy fuck,” even the ever so cool Travie says. “With a husband looking like that – yes, you really should stop complaining.”

Pete has reached them before Patrick can think of a rebuttal. “I’m so sorry, babe,” Pete coos after brushing a quick kiss to Patrick’s cheek, “took a little longer to wrap things up.”

“It’s alright,” Patrick says with all the nonchalance he can muster. “This is Travie – Travie, this is Pete, my husband.” It’s still so surreal, Patrick feels the need to point that out.

Travie nods, says: “Glad to finally meet you, Pete. I’ve heard a lot about you already...”

“Only good things, I hope?” Pete remarks as he takes Travie’s hand.

“Your table is ready.” The hostess keeps her eyes fixed on Pete while she says that, and her smile is different from the professional one she kept on when she hurriedly told Patrick that “no, Mr. Stump, I’m afraid we can’t seat you until the whole party has arrived”. As they walk to their table, Patrick swears he can feel the looks of the other guests burning through his skin, calculating, judging, wondering why he eventually sits down next to someone as good-looking as Pete.

Pete is charming, extroverted, and avoids any of the awkwardness Patrick would’ve felt in his place; unlike Pete, he’s not good at meeting new people. Conversation is kept light for now, with Pete mostly babbling about the honeymoon and his redecorating and his day on set. He’s a good talker, and he’s pretty to look at, so Patrick lets him talk as he tries not to wonder why Pete keeps leaning in every time Travie speaks up.

“If you’re looking for something unique for your house, you should come to the next art show one of my buddies is hosting,” Travie says now, “I keep inviting Patrick, but he usually finds an excuse not to come.”

“I’m not good with the art crowd,” Patrick mumbles in his defense. It’s true, he doesn’t know anything about art, and always feel so out of place around the hip, aloof artists that Travie likes to hang out with. Drinking cheap champagne and pretending he understands anything about street art or the reclaiming of urban spaces doesn't sound very excitable to Patrick.

It must sound excitable to Pete though, because he clasps his hands, exclaims: “I would love to!”

“See? Your husband loves the idea.” Travie looks perfectly innocent as he says so, although Patrick can hear a hint of smugness in his voice. It’s so cheap how his own friends play the trophy husband card against him.

Pete looks at him with big brown eyes. “Please?”

Patrick considers his options. On the one hand, he really isn’t a people-person, and chances are he’ll make a fool of himself as the rich white guy who doesn't know shit. On the other hand, it would be a nice, exclusive little events that promises some of that fame and exposure that Pete is supposed to bring into the marriage. He knows the unasked question that’s on Travie’s mind: What did he marry a model for if not to show off and make use of the attention it gets him?

Also, it would be nice to do something together. Trophy husband or not, Patrick is starting to feel very inadequate and boring – he’s not a gym bunny, he isn’t into any kind of sports, he hates shopping, he doesn't like anything Pete likes and maybe he needs to make a little more effort lest his husband finds all sorts of other entertainment elsewhere.

“Fine. We’ll be there.” Patrick’s semi-reluctant answer is rewarded with a big grin from Pete, and a knowing smile from Travie.

When has the word no vanished from his vocabulary?

Time flies buy, and when they eventually get up to leave, Pete takes a sharp breath, hands holding onto the table; he still stumbles, although Travie’s quick reaction and strong grip keeps him from falling.

“You good?” Travie asks concerned, while Pete holds on tightly to his arm to balance himself. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” Pete says with a somewhat forced smile, “shouldn’t have had that second glass of wine. Bad, bad Petey...” He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, sure putting on a big show for such a little incident. For someone that bad at acting, Pete sure knows how to make a scene.

Finally, he lets go of Travie, smiling apologetically. Patrick hurries to wrap an arm around Pete’s waist, trying to steady him. Pete giggles, of course he does, and before they make it outside, he also takes the time to step aside and take a quick selfie with the hostess that has been eyeing him all evening. Patrick is rather sure that’s bad etiquette and against the restaurant’s rules, but for now, he’s just glad Pete doesn’t accidentally stumble into her arms, too.

“You didn’t drink _ that _ much,” Patrick observes once they’ve said good-bye to Travie.

Pete giggles as he leans against Patrick again. “I’m a lightweight.”

“You sure are,” Patrick says with a sigh, “and I see, alcohol doesn't help your streak of being clumsy.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” Pete whispers with a playful wink. “’s just a little bad habit...”

Patrick would argue it’s more a case of Pete not wanting to admit he can’t handle his alcohol as well as he used to ten to fifteen years ago, but maybe now is not the time to have a discussion about age.

“Well, you’re not driving. We’re taking my car,” he says instead, “Joe can pick yours up tomorrow.”

That is definitely the right choice, especially given how Pete has to roll down his window for the whole drive to keep the car sickness at bay. The radio is playing, and the only time Pete moves his head away from the window is when the first few beats of some hip hop song come through the speakers, only to be immediately silenced by Pete nearly smashing his fist against the radio switch to silence it.

“Would you be careful with that?” Patrick says irritated, but Pete just turns away again, hands still balled into fists.

Yeah, Pete is better off drinking his protein smoothies and fitness shakes instead of alcohol. On their way to the master bedroom, Pete keeps leaning on Patrick, he’s not stumbling really, but he places his steps with more time and care than usual. It’s sort of ridiculous, Pete barely had the third of the wine bottle and model or not, he’s not the skinny little scene twink anymore and he’s eaten enough at dinner to compensate for the alcohol. He’s not drunk, not even tipsy. Is he being clingy? Trying to pretend he’s a cute little damsel in distress? Fishing for Patrick’s attention?

If it’s the latter, than it has definitely worked, because 20 minutes later, all their clothes are strewn across the master bedroom and Pete is laying underneath him, arms resting above his head, legs spread, between them a hard cock just for Patrick. Prepped and ready, Pete’s even more passive than usual, not having touched his own dick once and lifting his legs now to rest them on Patrick’s shoulders.

“Best you just fuck me like this,” Pete giggles, thrusting up his hips a little. “No more sudden movements today, please...”

“I’ll be careful,” Patrick mutters as he lines up with Pete’s bleached and lubed-up hole.

“Hmmm?” Pete draws it out, almost like he’s purring. “What did you say?”

“Said I’ll be careful,” Patrick repeats a little louder as the head of his cock nudges against Pete’s entrance, aching to be buried inside of him. He’s not really in the right mindset for more conversation right now. “You good?”

“I’m good,” Pete answers, playful giggles traded for a syrupy-sweet, seductive undertone in his voice, his pretty brown eyes staring wantonly at Patrick. “I’ll be even better once you start fucking me…”

“Shh, enough talking then. Relax, babe...”

Afterwards, Pete insists on a shower together, and Patrick is never one to say no to that. The warm water is soothing, and feels almost as good as when Pete goes down on him for one last quick blowjob before bed.

Back in bed, the atmosphere is relaxed again, and Patrick doesn’t really want to ruin the moment, he’d rather close his eyes – figuratively and literally – but when he sees the scab on Pete’s knee, he can’t help himself.

“Your injury… Is everything alright?” Patrick mumbles as he sits down next to Pete on the bed. He can’t help but think of Pete’s insistence to have his medical records sealed, the NDAs he signed… It’s a dark stain that doesn’t fit the bright-white smile and bleached hair and sunny attitude Pete usually displays.

Pete cocks his head to the right, and answers in a cheery voice: “You don’t need to worry, babe. It’s just a scraped knee. I’m good.”

Patrick opens his mouth, only to close it again without having said anything. They might be married, but he barely knows Pete, after all. Asking for details of his medical history when Pete clearly doesn’t want to discuss it seems a bit much. Patrick feels his face heating up; this is not the kind of situation he has imagined when he thought of getting a trophy husband.

“It’s just a scraped knee,” Pete repeats before Patrick speak up again, and that’s all Pete seems to be willing to say. And really, it’s just that, a little scratch that's almost healed already, nothing serious. Perhaps, Patrick is just reaching.

And yet, Patrick feels like he just can’t find the right words, he doesn’t know what to say or do - this is not the type of marital problems he’s familiar with. Patrick knows screaming and crying, he knows shouting hidden away behind doors that can’t quite keep it away from his prying ears, he knows silence, cold smiles, and court rooms. 

But Pete doesn’t seem angry, they didn’t fight, there’s no shouting, no frowning, Pete isn’t throwing him out of the bedroom. It’s just another mundane chat with his spouse, and if there’s something else behind Pete’s lighthearted words and pretty smile, it remains out of reach for Patrick.

Pete sits up a little, his eyes avoiding Patrick’s as he grabs his phone from the nightstand. That means he will probably stay up for the next few hours or perhaps even all night, Patrick knows about Pete’s insomniac habits by now.

Sleep does find Patrick much sooner, but it brings him no rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! <3
> 
> I can already tell you that next chapter, stuff is happening and things are said that perhaps, aren't all (pretend?) sunshine and rainbows... but you'll see for yourself :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! Trophy Husband Pete returns this week, and we have quite a few things happening, as well as a new character showing up...
> 
>   
Thanks to Snitches for beta reading and for all your patience and advice!

Outside in the middle of nowhere – well, not exactly nowhere, but at least 20 minutes from any Walmart or the next organic frozen yogurt store marking the pinnacle of human civilization and also classifying its immediate surroundings as a city – is not the place Patrick wants to be.

“We don’t even really work together,” Patrick mumbles, “Pete’s out here filming, and then later I’m a hundred miles away crammed into whatever studio the ad execs rent for the spot.”

“That’s why you’re visiting him on set,” Bob replies without mercy, “go get some good pictures of you two together. We need to build up your popularity before the Grammy’s, you have a good chance of getting nominated again and I’d like to see some photos of you this time.”

“There were photos the last time,” Patrick argues weakly as he plays with his water bottle. It’s lunch break on set, yet hectic and organized chaos rule over the people.

“Patrick, no one gives a shit about Best Spoken Words Album or Annie Awards, these categories won’t even get broadcasted. The people need something shiny dangling in front of them to pay attention, and that’ll be your little trophy husband. So, go, take some pictures and look like a lovely married couple.”

Patrick hangs up, and he hates himself a little, but he does get up from the comfy chair in the shade and ventures to find Pete. Being on set isn’t really something Patrick likes, and it sucks even more when he is nothing but an unknown awkward guy who clearly doesn’t belong here.

At least finding Pete is not difficult at all. Even if he weren’t the model for the commercial, someone as hot as him would be hard to miss. The bleach-blond hair is visible from afar, paired with rolled-up shirt sleeves exposing his signature tattoos and his face wearing the signature million-dollar smile while he talks to the makeup artist. The commercial sees him dressed sensible in a red turtleneck and a simple, elegant suit, jacket thrown over his shoulder now, a captivating contrast to Pete’s bad boy vibe. Patrick calls his name, but it seems to go unheard in the chaos around them.

“You’ve been hiding from me, babe!” Pete says with a pout when Patrick finally reaches him. “Did you like watching me?”

Truth is, it is rather boring to watch a dozen takes of three slightly different scenes in the middle of fucking nowhere to the backdrop of nature, which again, is not exactly Patrick’s favorite place to be. Not to mention Pete’s barely acting, he’s just looking pretty, occasionally furrows his brows, otherwise silent since Patrick will do the entire sappy voice-over.

“You look beautiful,” Patrick replies, evading a direct answer. “And you’re perfect for the job.” That much is true, for Pete looks like his usual stunning self, and damn if he isn’t the perfect fit for the sleek car he’s advertising. Anyone would stop to look twice or perhaps even more often. “Well, we should take some pictures, commemorate the first time we’re working together.”

Pete giggles excitedly as he reaches for his phone. “We totally should! Just need to be careful, we can’t show too much of the car in it...”

Patrick smiles, or at least tries his best to do so, knowing full well he’s standing next to Pete who’s dressed and made up for set, while Patrick threw on a simple shirt, baseball cap, and called it a day. He hopes whatever filters Pete uses will work on his face as well.

“Don’t we look cute?” Pete says as he swipes through the photos afterwards, “I’ll find a nice one to post. Oh, that reminds me, Hayley will come back for some candids, and we will have someone from LA Design magazine over once we’re done remodeling.”

“We?” Patrick asks confused. “You mean, _ you _ will have them over. I’m not involved with your shoots.”

“This time, you are,” Pete says without looking up from his phone. “They want some good shots of our home, that show the two of us together. Gay married power couple and their beautiful home, you know?”

Patrick rolls his eyes at the thought. The hypocrisy is undeniable, but, well, it’s what he fake-married Pete for, after all.

Finally, Pete puts down his phone, and looks at Patrick with these big eyes he always makes when he wants something, be that the most expensive wine on the menu or Patrick taking the twelfth picture of Pete posing with a Starbucks cup, Gucci shopping bags, or whatever else he spends Patrick’s money on.

“Please, babe? It would be sooo important to me...” Pete coos, and Patrick really hates the infantile behavior, almost as much as the fact he once more finds himself in a position where “no” is not an answer. That happens frightfully often these days.

“Alright.” There’s nothing else to say, so Patrick doesn’t, just folds his arms over his chest while he waits for Pete to break the awkward silence with a smile or a giggle perhaps. Instead, he gets furrowed brows and a frown.

“Why are you so pissed? You told me to tell you when someone’s coming over, and we agreed to work together even before we got married, and now that I ask, you act like I did something wrong!” Pete sounds genuinely annoyed, which catches Patrick by surprise. “I’m trying my best to be nice, but you just keep punishing me.”

“Would you keep it down?” Patrick takes a quick look around, finds that no one is paying attention to them, then answers: “I don’t punish you!”

“Oh yeah?” Pete’s leaning in closer, whispers back: “What do I have to do to get more than a one-word answer and a half-hearted smile out of you? Nothing I do is good enough for you! You don’t like doing anything with me!” Pete still sounds annoyed, and rather hurt too. In a real way, not the “making a pretty pout” way. “You don’t want to work with me, you don’t care for anything in our household, you don’t want to go to the art exhibit Travie invited us to… I’m not stupid, I notice. I can see you don’t want to be here on set, and my agent told me you didn’t even want to take this job.”

Patrick feels his cheeks burning with anger and embarrassment. Mouth open for witty reply, he finds himself without any words at all – he can’t defend himself, because everything Pete said is uncomfortably on point. Knowing that Pete very much noticed, yet kept pretending to be all bleached-teeth smile and sunshine – all while Patrick didn’t bother to think twice about it – is perhaps telling of something Patrick would rather not think about.

“I took the job, I came out on set to visit you, and we took the damn selfies and whatnot together. I did my part. And I never hear you complain about all my money you’re spending!”

“I never hear you complain about what it gets you,” Pete retorts snottily as he rakes his fingers through his freshly-bleached hair.

Before Patrick can think of a snide comeback, the makeup artist is back, stylish scarf tied around her neck and a cup of tea of all things in her hand. “Petey, honey, let’s get back to work,” she says in a raspy voice; she sounds like she has a cold, and perhaps shouldn’t be too close to people but hey, that’s not Patrick’s responsibility.

Pete says nothing, follows her while Patrick is left red-faced and torn between anger and shame. He’s not about to get dragged into a public fight like Pete had with his various exes plenty of times, no, and Patrick won’t be like his dad and embarrass them both with an awful argument in front of everyone. Finally, Patrick thinks with cynicism, this is a situation in a marriage he’s more than familiar with.

As he gathers his things, Patrick runs into one of the ad execs. “Hey, you’re Patrick, the voice-actor we got, right? David Stumph’s kid, eh? I’m Shane,” the guy introduces himself, clearly not caring that Patrick doesn't really care. “About as bored as you, but the agency pays me good money to stand around and hold our client’s hand. And you’re the model’s husband, right?” Shane asks, missing all the cues that Patrick doesn’t want to talk right now. “You made a good deal marrying Pete.”

“Yeah, sure,” Patrick says without really listening. He just needs his cardigan, car keys, and then he can leave.

“Real smart of you,” Shane continues with a very unpleasant grin, “you can only marry these twinks when they’re young and stupid, or old and desperate. Bet Pete’s not as tight as he used to be, but I’m sure he’s learned how to make up for that, right?”

Patrick almost drops his keys. A baffled “Excuse me?” is the entirely lame answer he gives.

“It’s true though, isn’t it? Most people are just cowards, they won’t say it to your face. But I don’t believe in speaking bullshit,” Shane says in a conversational tone, like he’s merely stating his thoughts on last night’s football game, or the weather. Someone in the crowd waves at them, and Shane clicks his tongue. “Well then, I’m needed. Nice to meet you - I’ve always been a big fan of your dad, guess meeting you was as close as I can get to him now he’s dead, huh?” And then he’s lost among the crowd on set, leaving Patrick behind utterly stunned.

Part of Patrick fantasises about running after him, and delivering a heroic, very witty comeback to Shane’s insulting insights. Something profound and clever that would both silence Shane, and the part of Patrick that finds himself wondering if perhaps, he shares these opinions – didn’t Patrick himself declare their fast marriage an act of desperation on the aging model’s behalf? Is that really so different?

Patrick doesn’t dwell on the thought. Instead, he leaves, and no matter how much he tries to convince himself that he’s not as malicious as this Shane, and that people like him can’t be convinced anyway, there’s a faint glow of guilt burning in his chest as he drives back home.

  


Pete comes home the next day, eyes narrowed and lips pressed together. They haven’t really talked since Patrick left. This is their first big fight, and Patrick is too proud to be the better man and try to build bridges. They avoid each other all day, and by the time Patrick goes to bed, Pete is already asleep. Pete chose to stay in the master bedroom, perhaps that’s a good sign? Patrick isn’t sure, and sleep is troubled by the stress of their strained relationship and Pete turning and tossing all night.

When Patrick wakes up, Pete is still sleeping, which is rare enough. Combined with the feverish glow on Pete’s face, it’s enough to make Patrick sit up and take a closer look.

Pete’s is burning hot under Patrick’s hand.

It takes a few agonizing moments for Patrick to wake his husband. Pete tries to speak, puts a hand on his throat. “It hurts,” he whispers, as if that wasn’t obvious, “think I caught a cold...”

“You caught whatever that goddamn makeup artist had,” Patrick says, and takes a deep breath; it might not be the best time to argue that Pete looks way worse than someone with a common cold. The high fever alone is worrisome. “I’ll get you to the doctor,” he says as calmly as possible while Pete sits up with a pained groan.

“I can’t go out like this. I just need some rest,” Pete mumbles, his hoarse voice contradicting his dismissive attitude, “’m just a little sick… You shouldn’t be around me, you’ll get sick, too.”

Meanwhile, Patrick is dressed and ready to go. “Too late for that. I spent the night next to you already,” he argues as he hands Pete one of his old Bowie-shirts, “just get dressed, okay?”

“I have a doctor who makes house calls.” Pete fumbles with his phone, selects a contact before handing it to Patrick.

Despite the house call, Pete forces himself to get out of bed, puts on the shirt, and spends twenty minutes in the bathroom. Despite his best efforts, he still looks like a sick person.

Dr. Thompson, as he introduces himself, is the perfect cliché of a trustworthy doctor – middle-aged, gray hair, less fashionable glasses than Patrick’s, white polo shirt and a stethoscope around his neck, like he just stepped out of a picture-book for children. At least he doesn’t look like he financed med school with modeling jobs. When Patrick thought of doctors Pete knows, he’d thought of hip and trendy plastic surgeons with $5k sofas in their spacious waiting rooms and patiently smiling nurses in bright-white scrubs. Not… this.

At least Pete seems comfortable around the guy. The doctor asks for discretion, so there’s nothing to do but wait. Patrick decides to heat up some breakfast – today, it’s whole grain blueberry pancakes with organic maple syrup, and with a guilty conscience, Patrick thinks back to Pete’s words and wonders if he’s ever even thanked Pete for finding them a good meal delivery service. Pete’s the one who does all the ordering and fills out the weekly questionnaire and got him the vegetarian option, all Patrick does is eat whatever the fridge is filled with.

After a while, Patrick hears voices in the hallway, and gets up to see if they’re done. He meets Doctor Thompson at the end of the staircase, and the diagnosis the doctor gives him makes Patrick look at him with widened eyes.

“Scarlet fever?” Patrick repeats in disbelief. That’s an illness for Victorian orphans in intricate historical novels, not for modern LA models. “Pete’s a grown man in the 21st century!”

When he pictures a life with Pete, quite a few diseases had come to mind, especially after Pete made him sign the NDA in the prenup. But all of them were various STDs, not… This.

“Scarlet fever can occur at any age,” the doctor answers patiently, “ten days of antibiotics, and he should be fine. Since you’ve been exposed to him, watch out for any symptoms in yourself...” He goes on to explain more, while Patrick just quietly nods along. There’s words like _ fever _ and _ rash _ and worst of all, _ strep throat_, not something Patrick wants to deal with given his voice is his biggest asset.

“Mr. Wentz will be no longer contagious after 24 hours of antibiotics,” the doctor ends his speech, “until then, no visitors. You don’t have children?”

Patrick shakes his head, but adds: “One of my live-in employees has a little girl. 18 months, I think.”

“Keep her away, and tell your cleaning service to disinfect whatever the patient has come in contact with. Here’s a list of home health nurses I work with.” He hands Patrick a glossy and fancy-looking brochure depicting several healthcare professionals dressed in scrubs, smiling reassuringly.

Patrick pauses to think about it. One call and a credit card number later, and he could have someone over to watch Pete 24/7, care for all his needs, fix him up and then hand him back to Patrick when he’s all nice and healthy again. Like Pete’s a prized racehorse sent away to an expensive veterinary clinic, or a younger Patrick sent away to camp for the summer so his parents can fight in peace.

Guilt tugs at Patrick’s heart. He can’t just abandon his own husband like that.

“Is that necessary?” Patrick hurries to ask as the doctor is already halfway out in the driveway. “I can take care of him, too, can’t I?”

Dr. Thompson pauses to look at him in a very serious manner, like Patrick asked to perform heart surgery on Pete. But it’s fever and antibiotics, not terminal cancer, and Patrick doesn’t think dumping Pete into the care of a stranger is the right thing to do. Marriage of convenience or not, Pete is still his husband, and Patrick isn’t that heartless. And he’s also more than just some rich dude, he can do more than throw money at Pete, even if apparently no one else thinks him capable of doing so.

In the end, Patrick gets the strict instructions to watch Pete’s fever, make him take the meds, give him ice cream to battle the sore throat, and to avoid infecting anyone else. Dr. Thompson confirms an appointment for tomorrow to check on Pete, then drives off, although not without handing Patrick a flyer about hygiene, and one for another nearby home health nurse center. Patrick sighs, sends a text to Joe explaining the situation and asking him to stay away lest Rose gets infected as well, then walks back into the house.

“Scarlet fever,” Pete says with a weak smile when Patrick enters the master bedroom, “isn’t that poetic?”

“I wouldn’t call it that.” Patrick sighs as he sits down next to Pete. “But, you’ll be fine. Ten days of antibiotics, some rest, and you’ll be good.”

Pete takes a deep breath. “Have you called a nurse yet? I’m sure Dr. Thompson gave you some recommendations.”

“I didn’t.” Patrick sighs again. “Look, you just need the meds, plenty of rest, and I can take care of you myself.”

“Yourself,” Pete repeats quietly, then shrugs. “I guess that’s the cheaper option.”

“It’s not about money!” Flustered, Patrick feels how he blushes – out of anger that everyone keeps thinking he’s completely incapable or worse, totally unwilling to take care of the man he married, and out of embarrassment that apparently, even said husband thinks that way. That’s saying something about their marriage that Patrick suspects isn’t anything remotely positive.

Despite not looking convinced, Pete doesn’t protest, doesn’t even look at Patrick, which somehow feels even worse than their actual fight a few days ago. Pete seems – well, not even unhappy, just totally resigned, like he’s come to expect nothing better out of their marriage. Out of Patrick. That thought frightens Patrick to his very core.

“It’s not about the money,” Patrick repeats helplessly. “Pete, please, I’ll get you any sort of doctor or nurse you want. Your health and well-being is far more important to me. I just… You’re my husband, and it’s in sickness and in health, isn’t it? I didn’t just want to throw money at it and call it a day. I didn’t just want to hand you off to a stranger like you’re just a nuisance to me.”

“But me being sick _ is _ a nuisance.” Pete tries to smile, except it looks more like a pained grimace. It doesn’t come off like Pete is trying to accuse Patrick of anything, no. It feels like in a strange, twisted way, Pete is trying to apologize for being sick.

“No, it’s not.” Patrick reaches to take Pete’s hand, relieved when Pete lets him do so. “I want to be here for you. Of course, you deserve all the medical treatment you want, but you also deserve a husband.”

Pete stays quiet, staring at his hand in Patrick’s.

“Seriously. I’ll call you a home nurse or anyone else you want,” Patrick offers.

“Actually…” Pete squeezes Patrick’s hand, and then finally looks at him, this time with a smile that’s not fake. “I think for now, I’m happy to have just you.”

Relief floods Patrick, and he hurries to say: “Don’t worry, I’ll do exactly as the doctor instructed me to, and I have him on speed dial if anything happens.”

Pete nods. “Make sure he doesn’t need to treat you for scarlet fever or strep throat as well.”

“Speaking of,” Patrick continues, still slightly nervous that any moment, Pete may lose what little trust he has, and demand someone better instead. “I’ll get you some ice cream for your sore throat, okay? Non-dairy, no sugar, like your doctor said.”

With that, Patrick leaves the room; once he is outside, he reaches for his phone to make a somewhat unusual call. “Andy? Listen, I don’t care, put it on my billable hours, but I need your recommendations for vegan ice cream...”

A few minutes and some panicky explanations about this weird request later, Patrick has a list of Hurley-approved non-dairy ice cream. One of the shops even delivers. Patrick goes with that option, because he’s anxious that something could happen the second he leaves Pete alone. He can’t ask Joe to keep watch either, he can’t risk their baby girl getting sick.

Soon after Patrick finds himself sitting in bed next to Pete again, hand sanitizer on the mattress next to them, balancing a pint of organic cruelty and dairy-free vegan ice cream on his lap. “It’s sweetened, but with raw honey only,” he says apologetically, “but, well, the internet said honey is good for the sore throat.”

“’m sick, I don’t care,” Pete rasps as he carefully sits up. He manages to get down a few bites, before he hands back the melting ice cream. Patrick goes downstairs to get it into the freezer, and by the time he’s back in the bedroom, Pete is already asleep.

The day goes by like that, with Pete mostly sleeping, tossing and turning, complaining it’s either too hot or too cold, Patrick feeding him spoonfuls of ice cream to calm his throat, and more sleep. Patrick is mostly nervous, he’s never really taken care of someone sick before, especially not on his own. He uses hand sanitizer until his hands are red and raw, showers twice, and calls his cleaning service to inform them about the situation. Once everything is cleaned and Pete’s been on antibiotics for more than 24 hours, Patrick should be safe. That’s what Patrick tells himself while he touches his throat, hoping he hasn’t caught strep throat or the goddamn scarlet fever from Pete.

Dr. Thompson drops by for a short visit the next day, confirms Pete is still sick and tells Patrick to watch out if the fever gets higher, and to keep Pete hydrated. While Pete’s still feverish, he’s a little more awake and present now. Patrick gets him to at least eat some more ice cream and drink some water. Pete insists on a shower, even though he can’t stand up without nausea and vertigo making him stumble and groan. He’s clumsy enough even without being sick already, so Patrick talks him down to taking a bath, with the door open so Patrick can keep an ear out while he changes the sweat-soaked bed sheets.

It feels surreal, to go from film sets and fancy photo shoots to… this. Patrick has had a lot of fantasies about Pete (where sweat-soaked sheets and a shared bed had a very different meaning), and he’s gone through a lot of potential future scenarios of what their marriage would look like (credit card bills, flashlights on the red carpet, sex on every available surface), yet somehow taking care of a sick Pete hasn’t been among them. Pete’s a model, he’s a gym bunny, he’s eating healthily and takes half a dozen supplements, the only illness someone like Pete is supposed to get is sore muscles from working out, or maybe herpes.

Strangely enough, being sick makes Pete… somewhat more accessible. He’s always so beautiful and confident and Patrick feels like he’s constantly running behind Pete, barely ever keeping pace with someone as extrovert and shiny as him.

But right now, Pete is just a sick guy, and for the first time, Patrick doesn’t feel utterly judged or entirely inadequate next to him. For the first time, he feels like he can provide more than a credit card and his dick.

“Being sick sucks,” Pete groans when he falls back into bed, “it hurts, and it’s so boring. And I’m so cold...”

“It’s the fever,” Patrick mumbles as he puts his hand on Pete’s forehead; indeed, still hot. At least Pete complaining about boredom seems like a good sign to Patrick. “You wanna watch a movie?”

Pete nods, and Patrick realizes he has absolutely no idea what kind of movies Pete is into. Sure, he can guess the obvious from Pete’s little fanboy tattoo and the fact he recognized Patrick’s voice in a Burton movie, but… Otherwise?

Pete ends up picking Star Wars, a choice Patrick can fully support.

“Did you know Mark Hamill is actually an acclaimed voice actor?” Patrick says as they watch the credit scene roll. “I love his work, especially his Joker in the animated series, and he worked with Studio Ghibli, too – sorry, I know, voice acting isn’t really that interesting to outsiders, but I just love his work so much!”

To his surprise, his little mini rant earns him a warm smile from Pete. “You’re cute,” Pete whispers, “why do you never talk about your work?”

Patrick shrugs. “It’s boring for most people. I’m just the guy behind the scenes.”

“We never watched a movie you acted in,” Pete says as he stares at the screen, “’s important to you, why not share it with me?”

“I don’t like to watch my own work. That’s weird.” Patrick sighs; the opening scenes of Star Warts: Episode IV play on screen, and he could just pretend they both don’t know the movie by heart, and be silent. Then again, it’s not like any of is former partners has ever really cared about his passions, and even if Pete’s just bored, he’s still willing to listen. “I do more than movies,” Patrick mumbles.

Pete nudges him. “Babe, the TV is too loud, you need to speak up.”

The TV is not loud at all, but Patrick still lowers the volume, clears his throat, and speaks louder. “I do more than movies,” he repeats, “like, audio books – did you know I won a Grammy for the Best Spoken Word Album? I complained, because fucking Elvis Costello’s spoken memoir was nominated too, and obviously, he should’ve won. They wouldn’t let me give my award to him, though. My manager was so fucking mad...”

Pete smiles at him, rests his head on Patrick’s shoulder, and even though they’ve been married for a few months now, this is the most intimate Patrick has ever felt with Pete.

Next day, red blotches spread from Pete’s chest to his throat, and it looks even worse under his shirt.

“Gross,” Pete whispers as he stares down at himself, his red-dotted hand absent-mindedly scratching his equally red chest, “I’m taking the antibiotics, why am I still getting the rash?”

Patrick grabs his hand. “Don’t scratch yourself, that’ll only make it worse. You don’t want any infections or scars, do you?”

“I don’t,” Pete answers, half anger, half panic, “I don’t want any of this! You shouldn’t touch me, it’s disgusting, and you’ll get sick, too.”

“If I got it already, I got it anyway. If not, then I’ll be fine. You’ve been on antibiotics for over a day, and the rash itself isn’t contagious,” Patrick tells him, remembering what the doctor explained to him.

It doesn’t seem to calm Pete much, his hands twitching with the barely suppressed need to scratch, eyes widened and filled with tears of frustration. “I’m sick and gross, why are you even bothering? You could just hire a nurse until I’m well again...”

“Hey. I told you, I’m still your husband, in sickness and in health.” Again, Patrick grabs Pete’s hand as it wanders to his chest to relieve the itching. Pete groans, but doesn’t fight it. “I don’t just want to turn my back and throw money at the problem. You deserve better than that.”

The rash feels weird under Patrick’s fingers, like sandpaper. Pete winces when Patrick lightly traces over it, and it hurts Patrick to see him react like that. Is he that bad a husband that Pete doesn’t want his care or closeness even when Pete’s sick?

“You barely ever want to do something with me, and now that I’m sick, you stick around?” Pete puts his hand on his throat, though not to scratch, but as a reaction to the painful soreness.

“It’s not that I never want to do things with you,” Patrick mumbles, “look, I’ll get you some more ice cream, okay? Don’t scratch yourself.”

Patrick hurries down to the fridge to retrieve yesterday’s leftover ice cream, and some more water. Pete’s barely eating anything besides the ice cream, and with guilt, Patrick realizes he hasn’t even called the damn meal delivery service to ask for food options appropriate for someone sick. Even though he doesn’t even have to cook himself, he’s a total failure in the kitchen. With a sigh, Patrick grabs a spoon, and makes his way upstairs again.

Pete is still sitting in bed, hands clutched into fists, so at least he’s not scratching himself. “I’ll eat it myself,” he says through gritted teeth, “keeps my hands busy. Fuck this rash.”

Patrick watches him eat, and contemplates Pete’s last remark. He and Pete, they do plenty of things, don’t they? Going to events, fancy dinner should their busy schedules leave an opening for it, documenting every bit of publicity-worthy marital life on camera, being their manager’s gay dream couple…

“It’s not that I never want to do things with you,” Patrick repeats as realization dawns on him, “it’s just that all the things we do suck. I mean, aside from sex, we… We never do anything fun. It’s all just shit someone else told us to do, and it’s all just shit I hate anyways, like being in public or posing for pictures, with you thrown in by my manager or your agent like a spoonful of sugar to make the bitter medicine go down more easily.”

Pete arches his brows. “I’m a model. Now you complain?”

“I don’t – look, I will never be a big fan of being in the public eye, or in front of a camera, but I thought with you at my side… Maybe, with a pretty husband like you, I’d look less like a loser.” Patrick sighs, embarrassed at how stupid this sounds said out loud. “I still look like a loser,” he mumbles, ashamed at himself, “now I just look like one who’s so bland and boring, he has to pay for someone to marry him.”

“If you’re a loser, than what does that make me?” Pete laughs, and it’s not his usual sweet giggle, it’s an outburst of dark, ugly barking. “What do you think people say about me? I’m just the silly model who marries for money because that’s all I’m good for. And then they get to throw me away and _ they _ get to keep their careers and money and the dog while I’m the dumb idiot who ruins everything.”

“You’re… That’s not true,” Patrick mumbles somewhat helplessly. Yes, what Pete says is exaggerated and overly dramatic and self-deprecating like he likes to be sometimes, so… Why does the right act of denying Pete’s statement feel so wrong? The rude and condescending remarks of the ad exec come to mind. Has he dared to talk like that to Pete’s face? How many more are out there, thinking – or openly declaring – the same? And worst of all, Patrick has to ask himself again if maybe, he wasn’t all that better.

Pete looks down at the now empty ice cream pint. “Don’t wanna speak,” he whispers, pointing at his throat, “and I’m cold again. Can we just cuddle, and watch a movie again...?”

They make it through the first ten minutes of Star Wars: Episode V, then Dr. Thompson shows up for today’s appointment. He takes Pete’s temperature, reminds him to take the antibiotics and drink plenty of water, and prescribes Calamine lotion to soothe the itching.

Afterwards, Pete is in the bathtub while Patrick is getting dressed and ready to go to the store and pick up the prescribed lotion. His phone vibrates, announcing it’s Joe and not an angry Bob calling for the fifth time, which is the only reason Patrick picks up.

“There’s a visitor,” Joe informs him, “she says her name is, uh, Victoria Asher? And that she’s here for Pete? But Pete hasn’t told me about anyone besides the doctor visiting him. Could you ask, please?”

Patrick makes a vaguely affirmative sound, then walks over to the bathroom. “Hey, Pete? Are you expecting anyone named – what was it? Victoria Asher?”

Pete looks up at him in confusion. “You mean Vicky-T?”

“Apparently so,” Patrick answers him. “Should I tell Joe to let her in?”

“I… Is that alright with you?” Pete asks in a small voice.

“Sure,” Patrick says, “I mean, it’s _ your _ visitor. Get ready, I’ll go to introduce myself in the meantime.”

The woman stands tall, taller than Patrick of course, with a perfectly styled dark bob, chic clothes, and the same aura of glamour that Pete has. Long legs, high cheekbones, dark and intense eyes peeking out from under full, curled eyelash-extensions – it’s obvious that she’s indeed Pete’s modeling colleague.

“Victoria Asher,” she introduces herself, overly formal and stiff. “Or, Vicky. Pleased to meet you. I’m here to see Pete? We were supposed to have the shoot for the new line of tennis clothes together, but he had to cancel, and I haven’t heard from him since. I’m just wondering how he’s doing?”

Something about her is off, her voice unnatural like she’s practiced these lines before her visit, and that smile of hers is just a tad forced.

“Patrick Stump,” Patrick says as he shakes her cold, sweaty hand, “come on in. Pete is getting dressed, give him a few minutes.”

Vicky nods, still with that overly polite, fake smile, avoiding Patrick’s eyes as she steps into the house. Her forced friendliness, stiff posture, perfectly manicured nails digging into her skin when she crosses her arms – she’s a caged animal, one who absolutely does not want to be near Patrick, that much is clear.

The nearly unbearable awkward silence filling the room only underlines this assumption. What is the matter with her? They just met.

“You and Pete are friends?” Patrick asks, just to say something.

The corner of Vicky’s mouth twitches just a little, before going back to the polite smile. “Yeah, we’re old friends... I was just worried about him.”

Silence settles again. Vicky gazes intensely at the framed wedding photos on the wall, and from time to time Patrick catches her eyeing him with something he can’t quite place – nervousness, and perhaps dislike. Whatever it is, it’s not exactly friendly or welcoming. He’s never been happier to see Pete entering the living room. Pete is dressed in long sleeves, and the high collar of his shirt almost hides the redness that spreads to his throat. His face still retains the telltale deep blush of scarlet fever, but Pete seems determined to look as little sick as possible.

As soon as Pete enters the room, Vicky loses her forced politeness, her face now torn with both worry and relief. There’s no awkwardness either, she just rushes over to Pete and hugs him before he can say so much as hello. After a moment of surprise, Pete hugs her back, which looks sort of funny given their height difference. Vicky mumbles something into Pete’s left ear that makes him smile, and she pats his shoulders one last time before she lets go of him.

Patrick takes that as his cue to finally escape the weird woman. “Pete, can I leave you two alone? I’ll run by the store and pick up the lotion and stuff.”

Pete just nods, promises to call if anything happens, and then Patrick is finally out of there. He’s seen how Vicky has balled her hands into fists when he kissed Pete goodbye.

Patrick decides he doesn’t like Vicky either.

It takes him a while to go to the pharmacy, and to go pick up everything else he wanted – Patrick finds himself wandering through Target, staring at the aisle dedicated to low-fat, protein-rich, dairy-free ice cream. Nothing he’d ever want for himself, but it sounds befitting for Pete with his sore throat and his silly protein shakes and supplements taking up the kitchen counters. Patrick takes the peanut butter flavor, and tries not to wonder if it says something about their relationship if he doesn’t know what kind of ice cream his husband likes. Or what kind of movies. Or - or all the other mundane things people know about their spouses.

Back home, Vicky is still there; Patrick had hoped to avoid her, but no such luck. At least, Pete seems happy to hang out with her. Weird, given how hard he’s trying to keep the fact he’s ill with something as unpretty as scarlet fever (and especially its rash) from the public eye. And why has Patrick never heard of this Vicky before?

“She wants to visit me tomorrow, too,” Pete says cheerfully. “Is that alright? You wanted me to ask for permission, didn’t you?”

At these words, Vicky looks at Patrick with yet another expression Patrick can’t quite place, but knows isn’t good.

“No, I just want to know when there’s someone over,” Patrick defends himself.

Silence follows. Pete looks at him with an expectant smile, while Vicky looks at Patrick like she regrets having to endure his presence.

“You’re always welcome, of course,” Patrick says to her with a nervous chuckle, “just… Just make sure you don’t overdo it, Pete, okay? For your health’s sake.”

Pete’s smile widens, while Vicky still clearly harbors some bad feelings for Patrick.

Patrick sighs as he leaves.

Just as things were starting to look better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, everyone!
> 
> Oh yeah, Best Spoken Word Album really is a Grammy category. And Elvis Costello was indeed nominated in that category for his spoken memoir.  
Also, I am not a doctor, not qualified to give medical advice, and everything here is based on Google research so please keep that in mind.
> 
> See you all next week!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, everyone, and welcome back! Let's see how the boys are doing this week...
> 
> Thanks to Snitches for beta-reading!
> 
> As always, I steal the IG quotes from great Mitski songs. This one is from "Nobody"!

Patrick is out again, both to get more ice cream and more lotion for the rash, and to escape Vicky’s judgmental eyes. She’s kept her word and is paying Pete another visit today, and Patrick doesn’t feel welcome.

Standing in line at the pharmacy, a display stand catches his eye. On it, an assortment of various types of stuffed animals, and a logo that looks vaguely familiar to Patrick. It takes a moment, then he realizes he’s seen Joe buy one for Rose – these stuffed animals come with the gimmick of doubling as a heating pad.

Thanks to the fever, Pete is shivering all the time, is he not? Hasn’t he complained about being cold?

Patrick pushes up his glasses, tries to look away. Those are meant for little kids, not adult men who earn a living by showing off the newest fashion and beauty trends.

A black teddy bear stares at Patrick with huge eyes. It’s surprisingly heavy in his hands, and it smells faintly of lavender. It’s silly. It’s lame. It’s sentimental. And yet, Patrick can’t help but think Pete might like it. He just hopes he is right.

When he arrives back home, Vicky is already gone. Pete is lounging on the couch, fiddling with his phone, probably posting some old pictures to keep his social media accounts alive and relevant.

“Got more lotion,” Patrick announces, which makes Pete look up from his phone. “Well, and – and this. It’s stupid, but...” Patrick regrets the purchase already, but it’s too late, he finds himself holding out a stuffed animal to his 36 year-old trophy husband. “It doubles as a heating pad,” Patrick adds lamely, “thought you could use it, because of the chills...”

“That’s…” Pete looks at the teddy bear, then grins at Patrick. “Actually, that’s very sweet of you, babe.” Pete takes the gift from him, brings it closer to his nose to smell the lavender inside. His tone and his smile feel genuine, and Patrick is both relieved for not having made a fool of himself, and happy for making Pete smile. He could get used to the latter.

A few minutes later, the teddy bear has been heated up in the microwave, and Pete is clutching it in his arms. “Thanks,” he says when Patrick sits down next to him on the couch, it’s a simple thanks with a small smile, and it’s just a silly spur of the moment gift, so why does this moment feel more precious than any of their expensive dinners, more valuable than Pete’s usual million-dollar smile?

Patrick doesn't know, and when Pete turns to him and, for the first time, asks if Patrick could perhaps help him apply the lotion to the parts of his body Pete can’t reach himself, Patrick thinks it’s best to discard these sad thoughts. It’s the first time Pete _ ever _ actively asked for help, and he doesn’t flinch anymore when Patrick touches the rough red rash.

Perhaps, they’re making some progress again.

  


On the sixth day, Pete’s fever has gone down, his throat and tongue don’t look as bad anymore, and while the rash is still bright-red and itchy, the worst seems to be over. Patrick thinks it’s time to take a deep breath, and also, time to return Bob’s calls.

“Six days,” Bob yells on the other end of the line, “six days and a cancelled appointment for the Tesla ad, and all I got was fucking one-liner emails?”

“I’m sorry,” Patrick offers half-heartedly. Today, Pete has felt well enough to spend some time in the garden, and now he’s back inside binge-watching Netflix, while Patrick is still outside, wishing the dreaded call was over already. He’d rather be back inside with Pete, cuddled up on the couch, just – hanging out, perhaps? They’ve got to do this a lot with Pete being sick, and Patrick has to admit, it’s quite nice. He’d like to do that more often.

“It’s time to leave your little bubble,” Bob interrupts his thoughts, “what the fuck happened?”

“Pete’s sick,” Patrick simply explains. He’s not even sure he can disclose much more, given the NDA in their prenup.

“Then hire him a nurse, and get your ass to the studio. You’re going tomorrow, or you’re losing the Tesla deal. You’re a professional, you know about deadlines, and you know what happens if you break contract. Less money for your husband to spend, and all the more trouble for me. Just take care of it.”

“_It _ has a name, and is also my husband!” Patrick defends himself angrily. “Want me to apologize for taking care of the man I married?”

“I want you to get to work,” Bob answers, audibly annoyed, “stop playing doctor with your trophy husband, and do your job. Your real job, you know. And why is it always a fight to get you in front of the camera with Pete, but the moment he’s sick, you turn into his full-time caregiver?”

“I’m not – oh, fuck you. You wanted me to marry him!”

“Yes, to get you _ out _ of the house, not to stay _ inside _ all day!” Bob sighs, and Patrick can picture him on the other end of the line, pinching his nose. “Tomorrow, you’ll be at the studio. If not, don’t bother telling me, just call your lawyer and see how you get out of this mess. Alone.”

Bob hangs up, leaves Patrick annoyed and with a semi-guilty conscience. Yes, he quite liked the time together with Pete, just the two of them, without any of the pressure that’s usually on them. But life goes on, the world doesn't stop spinning, and there’s money and jobs depending on their marriage. There’s work to do and smiles to be shown and the facade of the perfect gay power couple to be upheld, so Patrick sighs, and walks back inside. He finds Pete still lazing on the couch, the black teddy bear in his arms even though the fever went down and the chills stopped.

“Your friend, Vicky,” Patrick says nervously, “is she coming over tomorrow, too?”

Pete turns away from the TV screen. “Sorry, babe, what was that?”

“Vicky. Is she coming over tomorrow, too?”

Pete cocks his head, eyes fixed on Patrick. “Don’t you want her to?”

That’s beside the point, Patrick thinks, she’s Pete’s friend after all, it’s totally okay that she doesn’t like Patrick, it’s fine. It’s really fine.

“I need to go to work tomorrow, do the voice-over for the Tesla ad,” he explains instead, “think she could keep you company? Just to make sure...”  


Vicky does indeed show up, barely exchanging greetings with Patrick who perhaps hurries out of the house faster than necessary. It pains him a bit that there is so much mutual dislike between him and such a close friend of Pete, but Patrick doesn’t have the energy to deal with that right now.

Once in the studio, Patrick behaves like the professional he is – Bob will be happy. Thankfully, he doesn’t spot Shane anywhere, and aside from one of the techs telling Patrick he was a great fan of Patrick’s dad, such a shame he died so early, if Patrick ever thought of playing one of his dad’s songs for a memorial concert?, it all goes well. No one speaks badly of Pete, at least not to Patrick’s face; although he can’t help but wonder not if, but when that will happen again.

For now, Patrick puts such thoughts aside, and after recording his lines, he returns to their happy little bubble of eating leftover low-fat ice cream and watching old movies on the couch with no social obligations for once.  


A few days later, the red rash is gone, and instead, Pete’s skin peels like after a bad sunburn.

“When is this shit finally over?” Pete mutters after Dr. Thompson has left, and Patrick is sitting next to him on the bed again. “I’ve missed over a week and one shoot already, and now I have to wait for this to go away -” he puts a hand on his chest, scrapes his nails over the skin until Patrick takes pity and stops him - “when is this finally _ over _? I don’t like it when my body does things on its own.” Pete’s hand twitches with the intent to scratch, still held back by Patrick. “I’ve worked so hard on myself, I take so much care, I’m doing everything everyone wants of me, I bleach my hair and wax full body and gained the muscles and still – still...”

Patrick thought it to be hard to have pity with someone as pretty as Pete. But Pete seems genuinely upset, and Patrick feels genuinely sorry for his husband. He can’t say exactly why, if it’s because Pete’s big brown eyes convey emotions so well, if it’s because the tears in them seem real, or because perhaps, being pretty might not immediately solve all of Pete’s problems as Patrick liked to assume.

“You’ll be okay,” Patrick mumbles as he squeezes Pete’s hand.

Pete sniffles a little. “Sorry, what was that?”

“I said you’ll be okay,” Patrick repeats softly, and Pete almost looks like he believes him.

  
  


And indeed, a few days later, aside from the occasional patch of skin peeling – which looks less worse than most sunburns Patrick had in his life – Pete is doing pretty well, he’s gone back to eating normal, working out, and he already rescheduled Hayley for the candids and the sportswear shoot with Vicky. They’ve been more lenient with him given that (as Patrick just learned) it’s for Gabe’s label because of course, Vitamin B is as important in the model business as it is everywhere else. Pete seems almost normal if not for the harsh lines carved into his face when he sees his skin peel on his body.

Patrick is happy, mostly because Pete is almost healthy again and didn’t suffer any damage under his care – see, world, Patrick Stump is indeed capable of taking care of another human! - and partially because Pete has his hand on his dick, and it’s been two weeks and all Patrick’s had is jerk-off sessions in the shower.

“Seriously,” Patrick hears himself say just now, “I don’t care, and you look – fuck, you look beautiful no matter what...”

Under him, Pete makes a vague noise of disagreement. Pete, who’s never one to miss an opportunity to undress, is still wearing his Metallica t-shirt and Hugo Boss briefs, while Patrick is already naked.

“It’s nothing. You haven’t seen me after standing in the sun for more than ten minutes,” Patrick says as he leans down, brushes a gentle kiss to Pete’s no longer scarlet-red cheek. Damn, it feels so good to touch Pete like this again, to kiss him, to not have him recoil or wince because he’s so bothered by his own illness. Pete relaxes, allows Patrick to pull down the briefs and push up the shirt just enough to reveal the ugly bartskull tattoo, and it doesn't take long until he’s hard in Patrick’s hand.

“Seriously,” Patrick whispers as he trails kisses up from Pete’s hip bones to his abs, hairless chest, his throat, “I missed this...”

Pete’s shirt is off now as well, and Pete does relax a little, until Patrick slides his hand down between his legs.

“Wait, Patrick, we – I can’t.” Pete looks embarrassed as he continues: “I haven’t watched my food, and I haven't douched while I was sick, and – it might be best if you give me some time to get all nice and ready again...”

If Patrick’s being honest, he’s never paid any attention or perhaps some deserved compliments to Pete over the fact that Pete is going through all this effort to get himself ready for dick. He’s always taken that for granted – if he’s being honest, Patrick thinks he’s taken a lot of things from Pete for granted.

Well, there are plenty of other ways to have fun, and Patrick swears he’ll come up with something creative as soon as he’s no longer rock-hard, sitting between Pete’s spread legs, and aching for some intimate body contact and release.

“Shh, it’s no big deal,” Patrick says as he leans forward again, rests his forehead against Pete’s, “let’s just...”

Patrick leaves the sentence open-ended, although his erection brushing against Pete’s and his hand closing around both their cocks make his intention fairly clear.

“Oh,” Pete whispers, and a small smirk spreads over his pretty face, “oh, fuck, I like this… I – when do I get to come..?”

“Whenever you want,” Patrick answers breathlessly, “just… Yes, babe, move your hips a little, yes, like that...”

Neither of them lasts long. That doesn’t matter; Patrick feels very satisfied, not only because it’s a big step up from jerking off in the shower, but also because it feels so fucking good to share this moment with Pete.

Afterwards, Patrick gets a washcloth from the bathroom, this time, to wipe away the aftermath of an orgasm, not fever sweat or rash lotion.

“You’re pampering me,” Pete says with a chuckle. “I need a shower, anyway.”

“Maybe I like taking care of you.” Patrick wipes away the last bit of milky-white from Pete’s chest, careful not to scratch him where the skin peels off. It’s not a lie, Patrick likes it indeed when he can give Pete something that isn’t just money, but based on mutual respect.

Pete cocks his head. “I’m healthy again. You don’t need to take care of me anymore.”

“I don’t mean just that,” Patrick mumbles as he watches Pete put his shirt back on. “I mean… Everything else, too. I don’t know.” Pete stays silent, and Patrick isn’t entirely sure what that means. But Pete leans against him, head resting on Patrick’s shoulder, which Patrick takes as a good sign. “Hey, Pete… I’ve been meaning to ask – those things you said when we fought,” Patrick says nervously, “why didn’t you mention any of it sooner?”

Pete looks down, stays silent for another moment. “I don't want to fight,” he whispers after a while, “I’m so tired of fighting, Patrick. I’ve had two marriages full of arguments and fights already. I just wanted a fresh start with a clean slate, and I just wanted it to be nice and easy, with me being a good husband for once. That would be lovely, wouldn’t it?”

Patrick sighs. “Well… I don't think that’s how it works.”

“You liked it,” Pete says quietly. “You liked me being a good husband.”

“I don’t – okay, maybe I did,” Patrick admits with another sigh, “but I don’t want you to bottle up all negative feelings and explode them into my face every few months. I don’t want you to play the perfect spouse all the time when really, you’re unhappy with something. Being a good husband doesn’t mean you just say yes to everything and pretend it’s fine, right?”

“You tell me, babe,” Pete scoffs, “what do you know about being a good husband?”

“Not much.” Patrick shrugs, tries to play it cool. “I haven’t been married before, and my dad… He wasn’t the best example.”

Pete turns his head to him, brows raised. “Why? What did he do?”

“Have me to patch up a dying marriage. And then made me watch him divorce the hell out of my mom for the better half of a decade. It was… It was ugly.”

With a small, dark laugh, Pete turns away again. “I know a thing or two about ugly divorces.”

“I’m sorry,” Patrick says quietly, unsure what exactly he is sorry for. But it feels like the right thing to say. He slings an arm around Pete, and Pete leans into the embrace; they watch the silent golden sun beams crawl over the messy bed in thoughtful silence.

  


Three days later, Pete’s skin is almost back to normal, he’s had his first shoot after being ill (claiming the little leftover patches of skin peeling is merely a bit of sunburn, and that everything can be touched up in post), and right now, he’s also riding Patrick’s dick.

Patrick is barely holding back, but he wants Pete to come first, wants to feel it, wants to make sure he makes this good for Pete after all the trouble he went through in the past weeks.

Pete inhales sharply, grabs Patrick’s hand, which is currently occupied with stroking Pete’s dick. “You gotta… Gotta stop, or I’ll come...”

Patrick is breathing heavily, irritated that their rhythm is interrupted. “Pete, it’s fine -”

“Sorry, babe, what?” Pete leans forward, head tilted to the right, eyes fixed on Patrick.

“Pete, it’s _ fine_,” Patrick repeats, “I want you to feel good, and – whatever you want, just please, let’s keep going...”

Pete nods, and he leans back again, like he usually does when riding cock, presumably so Patrick can get a good view of his muscles, his fuck-flush face, how dick he’s taking slides into his body. And sure, it looks fucking hot, but Patrick doesn’t want a show, he wants a husband, he wants the sweat and the shared kisses and Pete’s chest against his.

“I’ll get you dirty,” Pete mutters, although he leans forward, allows Patrick to shift their position. “I’ll get you all dirty when I come...”

“I don’t care,” Patrick repeats breathlessly, “I want you close to me...”

For a second, something like sadness is in Pete’s eyes, tugs at the corner of his mouth. It’s gone as soon as it came. Perhaps Patrick is just imagining things, he has no time to think about it because now, Pete’s smile is honest, and he happily reciprocates Patrick’s fervent kisses as he starts to move again, surely, it was nothing.

Pete does come first, and Patrick strokes him through it, delighted as he feels Pete tighten around his dick and hears the soft little “oh” fall from Pete’s trembling lips. It’s nothing new, they’ve fucked plenty of times, and yet, there’s something strangely more intimate about the way Pete cups Patrick’s face (hands slightly trembling), the gentle, almost shy kisses Pete gives him as he rolls his hips, clenches tight around Patrick, until Patrick comes so hard, he’s sure he’s seeing stars.

For a while, neither of them moves. Time stands still as Patrick runs his hands up Pete’s smooth skin and hard muscles, from the scarred tattoo on Pete’s back to his clean-shaven face, bringing him in for one last kiss. “Get up,” Patrick mumbles afterwards, “let me pull out, or you’ll be sore.”

Pete does as told, lays down next to Patrick on his side, one leg thrown over Patrick’s thighs. He reaches out, wipes a bit of his cum away from Patrick’s belly. “Sure it doesn't bother you?”

“No. And I don’t know why you’re so squeamish all of the sudden.”

“I’m not squeamish. It’s just...” Pete trails off, wipes away another streak of pearly-white. “You’re so different from my exes sometimes.”

Patrick sure hopes he is, given that these guys are Pete’s exes now. That fate might be inevitable for Patrick, too, but he hopes it’s not anytime soon. Right now, their relationship feels… Comfortable, for the first time.

“Don't you ever want to try more?” Pete asks after a while. “You know I can handle a dick and fingers. But I’ve had more. I can take a dick and a toy, I could take two dicks, too. I think I’d need some work my way up again before I can do that, but… I could.”

“You could,” Patrick repeats slowly. “Did you like it, though?”

“Like it?” Pete seems to be taken aback by the question. “I like things I’m good at. And I usually managed to get off as well. Don’t you think it’s hot?“

“I’m not into anal play, and I’m happy with our sex life as it is.” Patrick isn’t sure how to react. Is Pete trying to nudge him into being more experimental? Then why does he seem so unenthusiastic about it? He talks about these things like they’re a sportive achievement, not something done for pleasure in the bedroom. “Buy yourself some toys if you want, but… I can’t promise I’m into it.”

“Nothing you’d want?” Pete rolls onto his stomach, rests his head on his hands, expectant eyes fixed on Patrick. “How about more dirty talk?”

“I don’t think either of us is very good at that.” Patrick shakes his head. “Honestly, I don’t even like it when you proclaim yourself to be my slut, or whatever. Just makes me feel awkward.”

“Well then...” Pete seems surprised, but continues: “You’re not the type for a sex tape, are you?”

Patrick sighs, and looks away. Somehow, the nudes and the sex tapes were a lot more appealing when Pete was nothing more than pure fantasy. Pixels on a screen, an unattainable, inanimate wet dream. Something that wasn’t real, and definitely wasn’t his legally wed husband laying next in bed to him.

Sure, Patrick can picture it, how Pete sends a lascivious wink at the camera, how he’s the one fucking Pete while someone else out there watches and jacks off to the dirty LA fairy tale. It’s not an arousing or otherwise appealing thought at all.

“Did you like it?” Patrick asks back. “When we talked about the sex tapes, you weren’t happy. Would you really want to do it again?”

Pete seems even more surprised, now with a hint of anger and irritation carving a harsh wrinkle into his forehead. “No, I wouldn’t,” he answers slowly, “I just wanted to make sure we’re on the same page about it.”

“We are,” Patrick says, taken aback by the indignation in Pete’s voice. Pete’s attitude is a lot less cutesy and carefree than last time the topic came up.

“Alright.” Pete shrugs, and Patrick can’t tell what’s underneath the badly acted indifference. “How about this – I could find myself a nice butt plug to wear for you. Or maybe a dildo?”

“Why are you asking me?” Patrick feels confused, and he feels the dawn of unease creeping up on him. “You’d be the one we use these toys on, so you need to decide that. I’m happy as things are, and I don’t need anything extraordinary for myself. I’d be alright with just, I don’t know. Maybe a small vibe. Or you using a finger or two when you blow me.”

Pete furrows his brows in confusion. “You’d want me to finger you during a blowjob?”

Despite Pete’s strange reaction, Patrick nods. “Hey, I have a prostate, too. Sometimes, it would be nice if you did something with it.”

Patrick doesn't think his request is too weird (especially considering all the suggestions Pete made), yet Pete keeps looking at him in confusion. “I didn’t know you’d be into that,” Pete says after contemplating for a while, “most guys I was with preferred me to be the only one taking fingers or dick. No one ever complained about me being called a slut. It’s all fun, isn’t it? And Jeremy, he would’ve never...” He trails off, and there’s that tinge of sadness in his expression again, just for a moment, before it’s traded for an apologetic smile.

“I’m not interested in what your last ex-husband wanted.” Patrick takes a deep breath, internally cringing at the mention of Pete’s ex. Why does that guy keep creeping up in their lives? Patrick wondered if it’s a subtle way for Pete to get him to do something Pete wants, but – right now, that’s not the impression he’s getting at all. “I’m interested in what _ you _ want, Pete. Right now, in _ this _ marriage.”

That’s a reasonable question, and yet despite his former eagerness to share all his sexual achievements, Pete doesn't answer. Instead, he looks away, stays silent as his pretty amber eyes stare off into the distance.

Patrick waits, patiently, until the silence borders on uncomfortable. He reaches out to cup Pete’s face, gently guides Pete to look at him again. “Pete? Did I say something wrong?”

Pete blinks, like he’s been torn out of a bad dream. “No,” he answers, and he’s back to smiling as he sits up, “no, of course you didn’t say anything wrong, babe! I was just thinking...” His smile widens into the perfect million-dollar smile as he rakes a hand through his bleach-blond hair. “And I think what I want right now is a nice, hot shower with you. Scrub you clean, hm? Maybe, I’ll get on my knees for you, make sure you’re taken extra-good care of...”

“Sure,” Patrick says with far less enthusiasm than he’d usually have when offered a blowjob by his hot trophy husband. It feels like a distraction, although Patrick is not quite sure what Pete wants to distract from.

All Patrick knows is that he’s lost this opportunity to talk about it.

  


They don’t really talk about it again in the upcoming days either. Pete is quite busy catching up on missed job appointments, missed gym time, and whenever they’re together, Patrick doesn’t know how to address the topic. Nothing happened, right? Pete assured him he said nothing wrong. Pete gave a reasonable answer. Pete may have been a little irritated when Patrick turned down that offer of a shower blowjob, but otherwise, they’ve been fine, the sex has been fine, everything is just fine. And really, Patrick is too happy with their newfound comfortableness, the little moments where Pete and he just sit on the couch together, Pete’s head in Patrick’s lap, and it’s almost like Patrick would expect a normal married couple to be. Maybe he can enjoy a little more of that, before they have another uncomfortable talk.

Patrick enters the kitchen at noon, which he finds to be an acceptable time for breakfast on days where work doesn’t require him to be up sooner. Of course, Pete is already shaved, showered, and dressed. “I’m off to the shoot, babe,” he coos as a good morning, before he pecks a kiss to Patrick’s cheek. “See you later!”

Patrick mumbles something vaguely affirmative between two spoonful of cinnamon oatmeal, then Pete’s off. It promises to be a regular day.

Until Patrick’s phone rings.

“Robert,” the man on the other line says, “Pete’s agent, you remember?”

“Sure,” Patrick says as he clanks his spoon against the now empty bowl of organic oatmeal, “and why aren’t you calling my manager?”

“Sorry to bother,” Robert says with zero apologetic intention in his voice, “but I need to get ahold of Pete. It’s about his shoot later, and it’s rather urgent -”

“What do you mean, later?” Patrick clears his throat. “Isn’t it like, now? Pete is already on his way.”

Silence on the other end of the line, which is not reassuring. “He needs to be here at 4o’clock,” Robert says eventually, with a certain strain in his voice. “I thought he might still be with you, and I can’t reach him on his phone. Look, tell him to call me back, okay? I -”

Patrick has already hung up.

He replays the scene in his head – organic oatmeal, Pete smiling, he clearly said “I’m off to the shoot, babe,” right after kissing Patrick’s cheek like he usually does. Why would he lie? Why doesn’t Pete answer his phone? Why would Pete’s phone be off in the first place?

Pete always has his phone around, Patrick has never seen him switch it off, be it at night, at dinner, or even at the gym (according to the selfies he takes there). If anything happened to him, Patrick would be first to know, given he’s Pete’s husband and his emergency contact on the insurance files. He’s – Pete is fine, isn’t he? It’s been over a month since he’s had scarlet fever.

It takes a painfully long hour until Pete calls him back.

“Of course I’m alright,” Pete says in a cheerful manner, “babe, you know I’m all healthy and recovered!”

“That’s not really – Pete, what’s going on?”

“Sorry, I can’t really talk right now,” Pete says, still a tad too cheerful, “let’s catch up later when I’m back home!”

Then he just hangs up, leaving Patrick unsatisfied and uncomfortable.

Seems like he can’t escape some more difficult talking, after all.

  


Pete comes home late, hums an off-tune melody as he enters the living room to meet his not so patiently waiting husband. Patrick doesn't want this conversation. He doesn’t want them to need this conversation in the first place. How come a marriage of convenience is still so inconvenient and difficult to handle?

Patrick takes a deep breath. “Pete, where were you this morning?”

Pete cocks his head, and smiles. “I was at work, babe.”

“Don’t ‘babe’ me,” Patrick says rather annoyed, “and don’t lie to me. Your agent called, and I know you weren’t at the shoot. So, where were you?”

The answer should be rather simple. Patrick expects something like “oh, you know, I messed up my schedule and was too early, so I just sat at Starbucks!” Or “well, I went shopping before the shoot!” Or maybe “it was just a quick detour to the gym!”

There’s a dozen explanations that come to Patrick’s desperate mind, maybe Pete had to get a quick Brazilian or get his hair bleached or buy new tennis shoes or whatever the hell he does all day when he’s not home.

Instead, Patrick gets uncomfortable, awkward silence.

“Actually, it’s a private matter,” Pete says now, playful smile lost, “actually, one that’s none of your business.”

“None of my business,” Patrick repeats slowly, “what the hell could you be doing that’s such a private and delicate matter, you can’t tell your own husband?”

“You always play the husband-card when it’s convenient for you, don’t you?” Pete sounds angry. Very angry. All these months he played the cheery little husband, and now Patrick seems to have opened the door to the underlying anger and whatever other emotion Pete pretended to not have.

“Really, I just want to know why you lied to me,” Patrick says with all the calmness he can muster. “If you’re sleeping with someone else, you can just tell me. I’m an adult, I know why we married, and -”

“I’m not cheating on you,” Pete interrupts, voice full of spite. “So there’s no need for you to be angry.”

Patrick takes a deep breath. “I’m not angry,” he declares, and really, that’s only half a lie; the only one Patrick is angry about is himself and his stupid naivety when he agree to marrying this guy he’d barely known just because his dick agreed it would be a great idea.

“I always do what you want me to do, don’t I?” Pete still sounds agitated, but his eyes aren’t meeting Patrick’s, and his hands are no longer balled into fists. “Why isn’t that good enough? Why are we still fighting?”

“Why do you even care?” Patrick asks, bitterness poisoning his tongue. “I was good enough to keep you company when you’re sick, and the second you’re well again, you’re lying and going behind my back? Tell me, how often did you lie to me before?”

Every second Pete stays silent is another stab into Patrick’s heart.

“You don’t believe me anyway,” Pete answers quietly, “you don’t _ want _to believe me. I think you should – I think you should leave me alone.”

Pete’s eyes still aren’t meeting Patrick’s, and his posture is tense, but he seems to have meant what he just said.

So, Patrick walks out. Marriage is a fucking joke, and he’s the goddamn punchline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, everyone!
> 
> These type of plushies do exist for real, and they're the greatest thing ever, haha. I own two of them and I love them, they're cute and practical and I'm a sucker for plushies anyway...


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, welcome back! Let's see how the boys are doing this week... 
> 
> Snitches remains my lovely beta reader, thanks for all the help!
> 
> And Mitski remains the artist I keep stealing quotes from for Pete's insta.

“So, what happened again?” Travie asks slightly confused. “Why were you angry, exactly?”

Patrick’s answer is a deep sigh.

The bar around them is full of people having a good time, most of them either younger than Patrick, or wearing their age with more grace than a ratty cardigan and the usual baseball cap. Thankfully, Travie isn’t one for dressing up; he is wearing one of his _ Shirts For Charity _ designs, one of his newest business endeavors meant to combine art and social responsibility. 

But Patrick feels like shit, and why shouldn’t his clothes reflect that? Besides, he’s married, he doesn't need to impress anyone anymore.

The being married part is the problem, though.

It’s why he’s sitting at the bar with Travie, sipping the second beer while he tries to explain his woes to his friend. 

“I wasn’t really angry. Just… Why couldn’t Pete just tell me what happened?” Patrick trails off, stares at his hands in his lap. “Him not trusting me... It makes me feel like an idiot. Like I’m not important. Like I’m just a meal ticket to him.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say.” Travie offers a smile that’s almost sympathetic, save for that gleam of mischief. “I can’t believe Pete would call you something like that. Truly outrageous. What else did he say?”

Patrick feels his face heat up. “I mean, he never outright said any of it,” he stammers, “but, the meal ticket thing - we’re all thinking it, aren’t we.”

“_You’re _ thinking it. Doesn't mean your husband does.” Travie takes a sip from his beer, eyes fixed on Patrick who blushes even further. “You married him because you thought he was hot, good in bed, and would be good for your career. Why is it so hard to believe Pete thought the same? I’m sure if he wanted just a meal ticket, Pete could’ve found himself a less troublesome option.”

“Oh, so now I’m a troublesome option?”

Travie rolls his eyes. “No, right now, you’re an asshole.”

Part of Patrick wants to argue that, but somehow, that part of him becomes smaller and smaller each minute they’re talking.

“My money is on therapy.”

Patrick almost spills his beer. “On _ what_?”

“I bet he’s seeing a therapist,” Travie repeats casually, “this is LA, after all. Everyone has a therapist or two.”

Patrick arches his brows, fiddles with the label of his bottle. “I don’t.”

“I do. And I like mine very much, just in case you ever need a recommendation.” Travie smiles at him like he’s just recommended a great new restaurant. 

With a sigh, Patrick pushes the bottle away from him. “Why can’t he just tell me?”

“Therapy is a private and delicate manner. And with that NDA about medical conditions, he doesn’t seem willing to open up about it. You complain you don’t know him, but does Pete know you? Would _ you _ tell him something like that?”

Patrick shrugs, feeling kind of lost and helpless. It’s true, marriage or not, he’s known Pete for less than a year. “I’m his husband,” Patrick says nonetheless, even though he feels like a stubborn child, “why can’t he trust me?”

“Do _ you _ trust _ him_?” Travie cocks his head, sends Patrick a stern glance. “Ever talked about your daddy issues with Pete? Or how you got married to Pete on a whim so you never have to actually try your hand at a real marriage? Or how you got married to Pete so you have an excuse to never have the kids you deep down might actually want, but are afraid of having because you’re sure you’ll screw them up just like your parents did with you?”

“Can you stop, please?!” Patrick glares back at Travie (who remains unfazed), then empties his beer in one go. It does not help, but maybe the next beer that the attentive bartender has already placed in front of him will. “See? I don’t need a therapist, I have you. And by the way, I don’t have daddy issues. And marrying Pete was just a smart business decision. Okay, well, maybe I liked the thought of being married to a hot model, but who wouldn’t, right?”

“I’m not even touching that one.” Travie leans back, and shakes his head. Patrick’s beer is half-empty again; this conversation is draining him. “Tell me, why should he trust you in the first place? What efforts have you made other than marrying him?”

“Well, I - I…” Patrick hesitates, then closes his mouth without having delivered any sort of satisfying answer to the provocative question. If he is being honest, he was prepared to pay for this relationship in the form of… Well, mostly money._ Effort _ was not something a marriage of convenience was supposed to cost. It was all supposed to just work - for a short time, maybe, Patrick never expected anything but an end to their alliance, and what use is it to invest emotional labor and reveal himself to be vulnerable if marriage is nothing but a silly concept Patrick refused to believe in anyways? 

“You need to make up your mind,” Travie says sternly, “what do you want from Pete, and your marriage? Do you want to keep him around purely as a trophy husband, or do you want something else?”

So many uncomfortable questions, and Patrick has none of the answers. “I don’t know,” he admits helplessly, “and I don’t know what ‘something else’ would mean.”

“I don’t either, but it might be worth a try.” Travie shoots him a questioning look.

Silence, or rather the background noise of other people filling up the bar, settles between them. Patrick wonders, how come he can ruin a fake marriage? And isn’t that exactly what he married Pete for – to skip these uncomfortable parts, and just have the good things that come with marriage?

Does he want anything else? Does _ Pete _ want anything else?

Right now, what Patrick wants is to cry.

Travie pats his shoulders, which tears Patrick out of his desperate thoughts. “Either way, you should apologize to Pete.”

Patrick sighs deeply. “I should,” he agrees quietly before he takes another big gulp of his overpriced beer. “I _ want _ to apologize. I… Sure, I married Pete out of convenience, but I never wanted to hurt him.”

“Well, but you did,” Travie says bluntly, “and now, you need to deal with it.”

As much as a small part of Patrick (one he is really growing to dislike) still wants to stomp his feet and invalidate everyone else’s feelings, it’s become clear that all it achieves is driving them away. As much as Patrick wants to defend himself and point out he isn’t like Pete’s exes, he isn’t like people like Shane or scandal-hungry TMZ reporters or anyone else looking down on Pete, it’s become clear that not being like them doesn’t make Patrick a better person just by default.

Patrick takes a big gulp of his beer. It’s really scary and frustrating to realize nothing is as he expected it to be. 

Travie pats him on the shoulder once more. “Look, Patrick, I think you should really sort out your priorities and stop being an emotional mess.”

“I’m not a mess,” Patrick retorts, clearly aware even he himself doesn’t believe his own lie. “I will apologize, and then I can try being a good husband – no, a _ great _ husband – and have kinky sex, take pictures with Pete on a red carpet, pay for the new Gucci Spring line, or whatever the hell he wants.”

Travie narrows his eyes. “What _ does _ he want?”

“I don’t know!” Patrick knows he’s talking a little too loud, but frustration wins over rationality. “I don’t know what Pete wants! Pete won’t tell me! I asked, but he won’t tell me!”

“Maybe Pete needs time to find the answer.” Goddamn it, why does Travie always sound so wise and rational? “For now, you should focus on apologizing to him.”

Patrick nods weakly, and it feels like the world around him is shaking as well. He should, he needs to – no, _ wants _ to apologize. Patrick never wanted to hurt Pete. He never wanted to be a bad husband, but as he’s just starting to realize, not wanting to be a bad husband does not make one a good husband, either. 

The little gold band on his right hand feels like a heavy weight.

Half an hour later, Patrick is sitting next to Joe, the comfortable blanket of alcohol slowly slipping away to reveal the dawn of a pounding headache.

“I need your advice,” Patrick says as he rubs over his temples, “you’re married, please tell me, how do I apologize to Pete?”

Joe stays silent for a while, before he answers: “What the hell are you and Pete even fighting about? You don’t have kids, you don’t have money issues, you pay someone else to run the household – seriously, what’s there to fight about with your husband?”

“Let’s just say I was in the wrong, and I want to apologize,” Patrick mumbles as he leans his head against the cool car window. 

“You guys are a total mess.” Joe gives Patrick the obligatory chance to deny it, but Patrick can’t argue the obvious. After some uncomfortable silence, Joe sends Patrick a fleeting glance. “Wait. You’re serious about apologizing?”

Patrick closes his eyes, and nods. “I am.”

For a while, they drive in silence again as Joe contemplates the question.

“Don’t just buy him shit,” Joe says eventually, “although, maybe some flowers couldn’t hurt...”

Patrick nods again, although he already figured that out by the time he was 12 and realized that not even the much desired, custom Gretsch gifted to him by his dad could make up for years of lost personal connection. It might be best not to add that he has no idea what he’d buy for Pete, anyway. He doesn’t know anything about fashion, and he doesn't know anything about whatever else Pete likes. Apparently, there are lots of things Patrick doesn't know about Pete, and that realization keeps making him more and more miserable.

“If you really did something wrong, then you’ll have to accept the blame. Don’t try to shift it off onto Pete, and don’t expect Pete to instantly forgive you,” Joe continues, “just because you’re ready to say sorry doesn't mean he is ready to accept that. Give him some time and some space to process it.”

That all sounds like excellent, reasonable advice, and also like a lot of emotional labor and sleeping alone in the master bedroom. Patrick sighs, opens his eyes to stare into the artificially brightened night.

“Thanks,” Patrick mumbles, although he really wants to beg Joe to tell him exactly what to do, what to say, and how to neatly fix this mess. But Patrick suspects Joe would neither want to, nor be capable of that.

Patrick isn’t sure if he himself is.

Joe shrugs. “I like Pete. He’s a good guy. If you really did something wrong, then get your act together and apologize.”

“Sometimes...” Patrick drifts off, but the leftover alcohol make him blurt out the rest of the sentence anyway: “Sometimes, I feel like I don’t know him at all.”

There’s a scoff from Joe. “Have you tried talking to him?”

“Of course I have!” Patrick crosses his arms over his chest. “I did, but… Most times, Pete won’t let me see more than the good husband act he’s playing.”

Silence lingers, as Joe contemplates over an answer. “Everyone is allowed their secrets,” he says eventually, “you barely know each other, after all. Putting a ring on him doesn’t grant you the right to all his personal affairs.”

Patrick makes a vague noise of agreement. He can’t deny part of him wishes it were that easy – that he could just put the wedding ring on, and skip all the work it takes to build up trust and a functional relationship.

“Isn’t that what you married him for, to be the good husband?” Joe interrupts his thoughts. “To be the gay version of the pretty trophy wife?”

It’s Patrick’s turn to shrug. Joe doesn't press the issue, and Patrick is very thankful for that.

Because right now, Patrick isn’t sure why he really married Pete- and worse, why Pete ever married _ him_.

Patrick sleeps alone that night. Even the black teddy bear he gave to Pete isn’t sitting on the bedside table like it usually does. That level of spite can’t be a good sign, can it?

Next day, Patrick rushes through his errands, and on the way home from Andy’s office, he stops to get the flowers Joe advised on. He stutters his way through the conversation with the florist, mumbles something about a fight and an angry spouse and gets a sympathetic, knowing look and a gorgeous, modestly-sized bouquet of hopefully appropriate flowers. It’s an arrangement of tulips and hyacinths, which as the florists explains mean asking for forgiveness in the language of flowers. Hyacinths have also been in their wedding bouquet, so Patrick thinks (or hopes) it’s a befitting choice. 

What Patrick hasn’t imagined is that back home, he finds Pete in the company of Vicky again. She’s hanging out here a lot for someone who, according to what Patrick gathered from her social media, hasn’t seen Pete in quite a while. She’s reposted some old pictures of Pete and her, still scene, wearing as much eyeliner as Vicky does, an old candid of them back from when Pete’s former scene kid hair was freshly-shaved, and one of their shoots together when Pete just gained some muscles, had grown his hair back out a little, but had not yet bleached it. That must’ve been over a year ago. Where the hell was she all that time between that and now?

Patrick supposes that Vicky isn’t sympathetic enough towards him to answer that question.

He meets them in the kitchen, where it looks like they’re about to refill their drinks before another round of sun bathing. Pete is in shorts and a tattered tanktop, Vicky in a simple white cotton dress. They look beautiful. They look happy. Patrick feels like he’s a bother.

“Pete? I’d like to talk to you,” Patrick starts nervously, and the mood instantly shifts. He can see the tension in the curve of Pete’s shoulder, how the corner of Vicky’s mouth twitch. Even more nervous, Patrick turns to her, and asks: “Can you – can you give us a moment alone?”

“Actually,” Pete says before Vicky can say or do anything, “actually, I’d prefer it if she stays.”

“Uhm, well,” Patrick stutters, “if you want...”

The water from the flowers is dripping onto the pristine kitchen floor, obscenely loud thanks to the thoroughly awkward silence. Pete’s narrowed eyes belie the smile on his lips; Vicky doesn't bother to pretend friendliness.

“I wanted to apologize. For what I said the other day. You know...” Patrick makes a vague gesture with the hand not holding the flowers. Pete nods, and although Vicky doesn't, Patrick is sure she knows exactly what he is talking about. “I was wrong to throw around all those accusations, and I’m sorry for pressuring you to answer. It’s – it’s obviously something private, and you’re entitled to that. I behaved like a jealous idiot, and I’m sorry for blaming all my insecurities on you.”

Pete stays silent. Vicky cocks an eyebrow, but she doesn’t interfere.

“I’m really sorry,” Patrick stammers, hoping he’s choosing the right words, “and, well, Joe said I should give you some space, and I don’t expect to you accept my apology right away, but – but I wanted you to know that I realized I made a mistake, and I’m sorry.”

Patrick has tried his best to go with the advice given to him, and prays he got that right. “I got you flowers,” he mumbles as he holds them out to Pete, “believe me, I know materialistic shit can’t patch up a bad relationship, I’ve seen my parents try, but… Joe said flowers are fine.”

For a terrifying moment, Patrick wonders if maybe, Pete will just laugh at him, or smack the flowers out of his hand, or tell him to get lost. Pete does none of these things.

“Thanks,” Pete finally says with a small smile, “they’re beautiful. Put them on the counter, I’ll find them a vase.”

Patrick does as told, aware of Vicky’s burning gaze lingering on him as he does so.

When he turns around again, Pete is smiling his million-dollar smile now, full of sunshine and bleached teeth. Carefree and cute. Beautiful and able to sell anything from cars to clothes. “Thanks,” Pete says again, “c’mon, please don’t make such a sad face, babe. Apology accepted. We’re good now, aren’t we?”

At this very moment, Patrick can see two paths laid out before him. He can smile back and agree, brush a kiss to Pete’s pretty lips, and then they can go back to being two strangers who work together, hook up, and just happen to be married. They could have that carefree trophy husband life where Patrick never asks and Pete never tells, where they just look good together on camera, and where Patrick gets his dick sucked whenever he feels like it. It could be so easy.

Or, Patrick can deny, can push further and try to make the relationship actually work, have it be built on mutual trust and respect, on shared little moments of joy, on late-night pillow talks and sweet stolen kisses, on difficult arguments and compromises that might not always please him. Of course, without knowing if that is even the direction his husband wants to take their marriage.

When he looks at Pete, Patrick knows that right here, right now, there’s only one answer in his heart.

“No,” Patrick says, “no, we’re not good. But… I want us to get there.”

At first, it looks like Pete wants to object, like he too considers if lying might be worth it, if the route of playing the trophy husband isn’t the easier one. In the end, he says nothing, but he isn’t smiling anymore, and he doesn't try to gloss over the issue again.

“Take your time, and let me know when you want to talk,” Patrick says quietly, “and… I’ll leave you two alone now.”

As he walks out, Patrick catches Vicky’s eyes following him. For the first time, they look at him with something that resembles sympathy.

Just as Patrick is ready to spend another night alone, the teddy bear is back on the nightstand, promising Pete’s much-missed presence. It does not disappoint. A moment after Patrick sits down on the bed, Pete leans against the door frame, head tilted to the right as he eyes Patrick.

“Just to be clear, I am not ‘_giving in’ _ or ‘_running back to you’_”_. _ Pete makes air quotes when he says that. It sounds like he’s trying to convince himself rather than Patrick. It also sounds like he too had a long conversation with a friend – in Pete’s case, meaning Vicky – or maybe, his supposed therapist does emergency calls. Patrick has refused the easy route, and so has Pete now, too. Patrick suspects neither of them knows where the other route leads to.

When Patrick nods, Pete slowly walks over, sits down on his side of the bed. He’s giving off the same caged animal vibes as Vicky does whenever she’s near Patrick, which is both frustrating and hurtful.

“I’m not cheating on you.” Pete glares at him with what must be all the suppressed anger from the past weeks, if not months. “And I don’t need to prove that. You need to trust me.”

Another statement that Patrick suspects to be advice from Vicky. Or maybe from the supposed therapist Pete might be seeing.

Patrick’s first instinct is to defend himself, to stick up his chin and list off all the reasons why he isn’t in the wrong, not completely, or at least not willingly. Shifting blame, as Joe called it, and advised not to do.

So, Patrick takes a deep breath, and nods again. “You’re right, and I’m sorry. ”

“I don’t like it when you think bad things about me,” Pete mumbles, and he’s looking down now, eyes overshadowed by black lashes and sadness. “I wanted to be a good husband this time. I wanted to do this right. I didn’t want the fights or accusations like with my exes. But you didn’t even trust me when you married me, did you? That’s why you added that stupid bit about condoms to our prenup, right?”

“I thought – I thought I was being smart.” It takes all of Patrick’s mental strength to not look away in shame when Pete glares at him again, and to say what he’s been slowly figuring out ever since their first fight. “We didn’t marry for love, Pete. We got married because it was convenient for both of us. I thought it was inevitable that, well, you didn’t want to be restricted to me alone. I thought if I was sensible and practical about it, we’d never need to talk about it. If I was rational and detached, I wouldn’t get hurt. And if I got you to confirm all my fears, _ you _ would be the bad guy.” 

Patrick takes a deep breath. All this introspection would make Travie proud, for sure.

Thoughtful silence lingers between them.

“You were careless,” Patrick adds after a while. “The first few times we hooked up, you would’ve let me fuck you without protection. You sucked my dick and swallowed and you didn’t even know me, Pete. I thought if I added that bit about wearing condoms, I could protect you from – from terrible guys like me, I guess. Or worse.”

Pete scoffs. “I don’t need your protection. I’m not weak. I’m not a victim.”

“I didn’t say that.” Patrick makes a helpless gesture with his hands. “Just that I’m sorry for being a condescending asshole.”

Thoughtful silence settles again. Patrick sighs to himself, eyes cast downwards to stare at the pristine white sheets and to avoid Pete’s.

“Sometimes,” Pete says quietly, “sometimes, I don’t get you at all.”

Patrick smiles weakly. “Likewise.”

When Patrick looks up again, the stranger he calls his husband smiles back at him. It’s a small, careful smile, but it’s honest. Patrick wonders where the dark, unknown road in front of them will take them – if it’s even a path they’ll walk together until the very end.

“So, how did it go?” This time, Travie is sitting on Patrick’s veranda, on the opposite sun chair in the actual sun, while Patrick has fled into the shadows of the sunshade. The mood at home has shifted to something more positive, so Patrick thinks it’s fine to invite his own emotional support here again.

“I apologized,” Patrick answers, licks away some melted ice cream from his hand. It’s a sugary-sweet, chocolate-covered, artificially colored, non-vegan popsicle because he’s rather tired of the low-fat protein ice cream leftovers. “I apologized, and we had a talk, and I’m giving him all the time and space he needs.”

Travie chuckles. “Look at you, like in a real relationship! Good work.”

“I try.” Patrick smiles to himself. “I don’t know what will come out of it, but I will keep trying.”

Speaking of the devil, Pete joins them outside, gym bag already slung over his shoulder. “Wanted to say hello before I’m off,” he says as he nods towards Travie, who nods back. “And wanted to apologize that we couldn’t make it to the art exhibit.”

“Hey Pete. Good to see you again.” Travie offers a friendly smile and calm demeanor. “And no need to apologize. Health comes first. Actually...” Travie rummages through his bag, and in between art supplies and a battered old sketchbook, he finds what he is looking for. “We’re having another great show coming up soon. Why don’t you come to the vernissage?” He holds out two invitations towards Pete, who takes them with barely-contained excitement. Then, Travie points at his shirt, another of the _ Shirts For Charity _ design. “The profits go to the charity we’re collaborating with. It’s going to be the first event of this collab, and I’m pretty proud of it.”

“It sounds amazing,” Pete says as he reads over the invitations, “you should get me one of those shirts, I could promote them on my Insta if you want?”

“That would be great. And I’d be happy to have you attend.” Travie looks at Pete, then Patrick, then adds: “Leave your husband at home if he acts too much like a fool.”

“I’m sitting right here,” Patrick reminds Travie, who just smiles his endlessly patient smile at him, like he always does when he knows he’s right. “And I want to go.”

“Do you?” Behind Pete’s playful tone hides a serious question. “Really, if you don’t want to, you don't have to.”

“I’m serious. I want to go with you.” Patrick gets up from his chair, careful to keep the half-eaten popsicle away from Pete’s expensive-looking clothes as he slings his arm around Pete’s waist.

Pete doesn’t object to the touch, and judging from the way his smile widens, it seems he believes Patrick’s words. Patrick smiles back, and Pete leans in to give him a kiss. It’s the first time since their fight that Patrick gets more than a quick peck on the cheek, and it’s silly, they’ve kissed a thousand times before, way dirtier than this, and yet Patrick can’t help but blush and grin like an idiot. “You taste so sweet,” Pete whispers as he licks his lips.

“It’s just the ice cream,” Patrick mumbles, feeling lame the moment he says it.

Pete chuckles, then eyes the rapidly melting popsicle. “Let me try?”

Patrick holds it up to him, and Pete takes a bite; Patrick tries his best not to stare at Pete’s mouth or imagine what else that tongue can do besides licking away a drop of ice cream. They’re barely back to kissing yet.

“Nah, you’re way sweeter,” Pete says around a mouthful of chocolate and vanilla ice cream. Patrick thinks he probably shouldn’t be feeling all these butterflies in his stomach upon such a cheesy pickup-line and the well-known sight of Pete’s brilliant smile. But Pete looks happy, for the first time in a while, and it sparks something weird inside of Patrick. Something that makes him want to protect Pete, makes him want to make sure Pete stays happy, makes him want to fight everyone who dares to threaten Pete’s happiness – even if that someone is Patrick himself.

In the background, Travie discreetly clears his throat. “Glad you two are doing better,” he says sincerely. “Hey, Pete. Let me walk you back to your car – I’d like to talk to you about the promo work for the exhibit...”

Patrick watches as they walk off, Pete gesturing animatedly as he talks to Travie. With a soft splat, the last bit of Patrick’s melted popsicle stains his shirt, leaves his hand a sticky-sweet mess. Patrick licks away some of the ice cream running down his fingers, and sighs. 

Pete’s kiss tasted way sweeter. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, everyone! 
> 
> Important things have been said, and more important talks will follow soon...


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! Thank you for your patience. Trick Or Pete required my full attention, hence the little pause. But, I am back to updating! 
> 
> As always, the quote is from Mitski (this time, from the amazing song "Your Best American Girl"), and I have to thank Snitches for being such an awesome and patient beta reader!

The next day is hectic from the start.

The LA Design magazine crew is setting up their equipment. Pete is amidst the small crowd, speaking to the stylist and the reporter that’s supposed to interview him. Despite the chaos, Pete is calm and collected, as professional as always when Patrick has seen him working.

Bob will be pleased, Ryan even more so, it’s exactly the kind of thing Patrick usually hates, and it’s this very shoot Pete and he fought about.

While Patrick might not be too interested in architecture or the spotlight, he feels rather bad for being so egotistical in his attitude towards his husband. Pete obviously cares, he’s put a lot of effort into the house, he has been excited and all Patrick had was cold disregard and an eyeroll. All because through the distorted lens of misplaced pride, opening up to Pete seemed too scary, doomed to failure, a silly love-sick thing to do in a marriage of convenience.

Well, if Patrick has learned anything, it’s that Pete isn’t an unattainable fantasy, he’s a real person and the reason he is out of reach for Patrick isn’t because he’s a gorgeous model, it’s because Patrick put him on a too-high pedestal built on lust and arrogant disdain.

And Patrick doesn’t want that anymore, he doesn’t want a husband in a gilded cage, doesn’t want Pete to keep forcing himself to perform the perfect marital narrative. And after their last fight, Patrick thinks that no matter what, that’s not what they are anymore.

Although, truth is, Patrick doesn’t know at all _ what _ they are right now.

  
  


Patrick finally catches Pete in a rare moment alone, guides him over to a more quiet corner for some privacy.

“You don’t need to do this,” Pete says, eyes fixed on the general chaos behind them, anything but Patrick. “I know you don’t care much for furniture or cameras.”

“I want to do it.” Patrick anxiously eyes his husband, waiting for a reaction. “I care about _ you_, and I’m sorry I acted so arrogantly about this.”

Pete lets out a quiet sigh, then nods, drags Patrick over to the stylist and is gone again. Patrick had hoped for a little more talking, but figures Pete still wanting to include him is a good sign already.

“You look good,” Pete says with a small smile once Patrick got changed and located him in the chaos again.

“So do you.” Patrick tugs at the collar of his navy shirt, smiles back. He’s been clothed and groomed by professionals, there’s going to be editing and airbrushing, and the honesty in Pete’s voice when he delivers the compliment makes Patrick forget to be paranoid about any inadequacies.

Of course, Pete looks good, he looks utterly stunning, like he stepped out of a fashion magazine to grace his surroundings with his presence. The impeccable white of his more conservative long-sleeved shirt is a nice contrast to the tight black faux-leather pants that only someone like Pete can pull off without looking ridiculous, and Pete’s million-dollar smile is as precious as ever. He’s less tense with Patrick now, like seeing him dressed up and ready to be photographed finally clears whatever doubts Pete may have had.

“I like the flowers,” Patrick says as he looks at the vase carefully arranged to be in the shot with them.

“Hyacinths,” Pete says with a knowing smile, “thought you might appreciate them.”

After Pete stops one of the assistants to take a quick picture for social media of them, they’re ushered into position for the actual photo. As always, Pete is handling himself graciously no matter if he’s advertising swimwear or presenting elegant furniture, and Patrick feels as close to comfortable to him as he can be given the situation.

The second picture sees them at the dining table, Pete sitting, Patrick leaning over him, his hand on Pete’s, wedding bands subtly framed for the shot.

It brings back memories of another lifetime, when his dad was about to release another record-sales album, and it was decided to show off the family. Patrick remembers being torn between boredom and hoping his parents wouldn’t have another embarrassing public fight as he was ushered around and told to smile for Dad. He remembers holding his mom’s hand and posing with his dad and a guitar and he remembers that afterwards, his parents didn’t speak to each other for three weeks. The guitar still stands in Patrick’s home studio, and the bittersweet pictures must be tucked away somewhere in a box of keepsakes and other neglected bad childhood memories.

And with gut-wrenching clarity, it dawns on Patrick that if he’s not careful, he and Pete will go down the exact same route. Having put a wedding band on Pete and declaring their marriage to be of simple convenience hasn’t solved any of their problems – if anything, it only made them more obvious.

When they are done, Pete turns his head to Patrick. “Thank you for doing this,” he says with such honesty, it makes Patrick feel awful for ever making Pete doubt him in the first place.

“It’s important to you. I would never ruin that.” Patrick takes a deep breath. “And really, I’m sorry for acting like an asshole about our work together. I like you, Pete, and I like spending time with you. Sure, maybe I like hanging out with you and re-watching old movies more than I enjoy being in front of a camera, but… Being with you makes everything easier. Fun, even.”

Pete lets out a little laugh, low and dark and very different from the artificial giggling he usually does. That gives Patrick enough confidence to lean in and press a gentle kiss to Pete’s forehead, careful not to ruin his hair in the process. It makes Pete laugh again, before he puts a hand on Patrick’s cheek and gently draws him in for a real kiss. For a moment, it makes Patrick forget where and what they are and aren’t.

Eventually, they have to part again, and real life returns into their peaceful little bubble in the form of the LA Design reporter who’s supposed to interview Pete.

“Hey, I’m Marcus. So it’s really happening,” the guy introduces himself as he holds out his hand to Patrick. “We’ve wanted Pete to be featured before, but that never worked out. Honestly, I expected you to cancel this time as well.”

“Me? Why?” Patrick answers slightly confused. “I never canceled anything in the first place.”

Pete crosses his arms over his chest, cocks his head to the right, but says nothing.

“Ah, yes, right. You’re the _ new _ husband, huh? Guess that’s why the editor gave it another shot.” Marcus looks at him with the curious eyes of a journalist hungry for a story. “You’re more supportive than Pete’s ex, aren’t you?”

“That’s not on the pre-approved lists of questions,” Pete points out, his polite smile just a tad off.

“I support my husband, of course I do,” Patrick says nonetheless, as smoothly as possible despite his growing irritation for the whole situation. “This is important to Pete, so it’s important to me as well.”

Marcus nods, seemingly satisfied with the sweet and PR-friendly answer. Pete slowly gets up, and follows him to do the actual interview, leaving Patrick behind with some questions and the dawn of answers he might not like at all.

Although Patrick is done with his small part, he stays a little longer to watch Pete, and to actually see what Pete did with the left wing. It turns out, Pete and Marie did a rather decent job. Pete has taste – Patrick isn’t sure if it’s_ good _ taste, and he doesn’t know why he bought furniture with legs and feet imitating two humans fucking, but despite the touch of tackiness, there’s undeniable character to it. There are a few pictures on the walls as well, artworks that Patrick didn’t even know Pete had, didn’t know Pete cared for, even. No wonder he’s excited to go to Travie’s exhibit. It’s here and now that Patrick promises himself he will put his own anxieties and apathy aside, and put in all the effort to get to know the actual man he married.

Meanwhile, Pete is gorgeous, enthusiastic, jovial with the crew and charismatic with the reporter interviewing him and of course, as always, the camera _ loves _ him.

Which only brings up more questions.

Back before they got married, Bob said Pete’s career was struggling, that he could use an image boost, and Bob isn’t one to lie. And yet, from everything Patrick knows and has seen, Pete is a professional, and he acts like one. Pete got himself a good agent, he’s showing up on set on time and without any drama, and aside from the time he was sick, he’s been nothing but busy. Pete must indeed very good at his job, competent, reliable, motivated, he doesn’t really need Patrick for anything.

So why is Patrick here? Why did Pete’s reputation suffer in the first place?

It’s the third time Patrick has heard of job offers Pete refused or didn’t follow through with, and it doesn’t fit what Patrick has seen of Pete so far at all. The car commercial. The tennis attire. LA design magazine. All of it seemed to be right up Pete’s alley, Patrick has seen him only excited for these jobs, so why did Pete ever refuse any of them in the first place?

More importantly, why did anyone think Patrick, the new husband, would have any impact on these decisions?

The rather weird visit from Pete’s agent, explicitly telling Patrick to back off from Pete’s career. Gabe’s mentioning of the last ex not liking him. Vicky’s angry glares. The offhand comment from the reporter just now.

Slowly, it all starts to make sense, and the picture it paints is not only very ugly, but also far from the simple lie Patrick had grown accustomed to – that Pete only married him for money. There’s something far more heavy and sinister behind Pete’s decision to marry a rich stranger, and the more glimpses of the truth Patrick catches, the more he can see why Pete would want to keep them from his view – or anyone else’s.

Finally, the magazine crew has wrapped it up, packed their equipment, and left. The house is quiet again, and Patrick is sitting in the kitchen with a mug of tea, checking his phone. As always, Pete’s social media is up to date and filled with nothing but the distorted version of reality, where spouses smile and hold hands and everything is peachy. It fills Patrick with irrational jealousy of his dreamland-counterpart only existing in pixels on screen, always looking just as happy as the pixel-Pete he stands next to.

Real Pete joins him in the kitchen now, interrupting Patrick’s musings. Pete’s opting for one of these weird protein health shakes that are lined up on the kitchen counter, and Patrick watches as Pete, brows furrowed in concentration, takes a picture of it for another sponsored post.

Afterwards, Pete sits next to Patrick, even brushes a little kiss to his cheek. He seems to be in a good mood now that the shoot went so well.

“Did you have fun?” Patrick asks, a little cautious after everything that happened between them.

“Well, it was work, after all.” Pete shrugs, but his smile belies the way he downplays his emotions.

“You and Marie did a great job,” Patrick says softly, playing with the almost empty mug in his hands. “I’m sorry I just disregarded your efforts. I won’t do that again.”

“Thanks,” Pete says, the small smile still tugging at the corner of his lips. “I enjoyed it. And I made sure the article mentions Marie as well.” He hesitates, and to Patrick’s surprise, adds: “Actually… Should we go over and check out how comfortable the new couch really is?”

It feels as weird to Patrick as it must feel to Pete, to be invited over despite them living together. It feels right nonetheless – they haven’t been living together for that long, and the left side of the house is and was always supposed to be Pete’s private space. That Pete wants him to be there (outside of the context of work) feels like something special. It feels good. Like a step forward in trusting each other.

With everyone else gone, there’s a more cozy yet intimate atmosphere to it. The couch is indeed comfortable, but Patrick pays little attention to that. While Pete doesn’t cuddle up to him like he usually would, it feels good to just sit together and enjoy each other’s presence without any pressure.

“You have a hand for this,” Patrick comments as he looks around. “Art and aesthetics, I mean. I might not know much about either, but even I can see that. The artworks on the walls… I didn’t know you had these.”

Pete shrugs again, and a hint of bitterness creeps into his voice when he says: “I used to have a bigger collection. I just… The divorce, you know?”

There really isn’t much of a diplomatic way to phrase it, so Patrick decides to be blunt when he asks: “Your last ex, Jeremy… Back when you were with him, he canceled the same shoot against your wishes, didn’t he?”

Shit-talking the ex is usually not exactly a sign of class nor very appropriate, but Patrick thinks there’s more here than catty drama and scandalous gossip. Whatever Pete’s past entails, its shadows are still looming over them in the form of fake smiles and a secrecy Patrick is growing tired and increasingly concerned of.

A long pause follows, and just as Patrick suspects Pete won’t answer him at all, Pete quietly says: “He did. Jeremy could be… Difficult.”

There’s a whole lot more behind that simple word, that much Patrick is sure of by now. “Did he do that a lot, messing with your work?” Patrick inquires, thinking back to all the other shoots Pete missed out on (that he knows of). He thinks of Pete’s bad image, and recalls how he had to re-hire his current agent, and how said agent only agreed to work with Pete again if the new husband wasn’t going to be a bother.

How much of it was really Pete’s fault, and how much of it was caused by a manipulative ex?

“He could just – whenever we had an argument, he was… Spiteful. And Jeremy liked to have control. Over everything.” Pete looks uncomfortable, like simply talking about the ex makes him nervous already, but he doesn’t shy away, doesn’t change the subject. He sighs, then says: “The Tesla job… I only got that because _ you _ agreed to do the voice-over. LA design only offered to shoot with me again because they knew my _ new _ husband wouldn’t back out of it last minute.”

When Patrick had married Pete, he’d chalked up the supposed bad image to Pete just being another LA model that partied a little too much and divorced a little too publicly. Now that he actually knows Pete, it’s become clear that the truth is far from what Patrick lazily assumed it would be.

After taking a deep breath, Pete surprises Patrick by adding what he already suspected. “Actually… Jeremy leaked our sex tape. We were in the process of separating, tensions were high, and – he knew how to hurt me, how to make me look bad, and well… Oh, Patrick, it was just such a fucking mess.”

Now, Patrick is no stranger to witnessing terrible divorces, but what he went through with his parents is something very different to whatever happened with Pete and his two exes. And perhaps, Patrick has to admit to himself that he can’t keep blaming others – be it Pete, or his parents – for his own failures.

“I’m sorry I ever watched the tape,” Patrick whispers, guilt choking him.

“I watched the tape as well.” Pete scoffs, half anger, half disgust. “I had to, again, like back with Sean. It always played well in divorce court – for my exes, of course...”

It’s more than Patrick has ever heard of Pete’s past marriages, save for the gossip surrounding him. He just hopes that he can be a good enough husband that Pete will trust him with his pain one day.

“I’m sorry that I’ve been such a bad husband so far,” Patrick says in a small voice, embarrassed with himself. “I thought I was being so smart, that this would be business, and I’d breeze through it. When we got married, you... you weren’t real to me. You were a fantasy come to life, not an actual human being.”

“That’s okay with me.” Pete smiles for real now, like he means what he says, which hurts more than if he lied. “Fake me will always be better than the real me, right? Fake me can be the perfect husband. I’d prefer him, if I were you.”

Patrick takes a deep breath. “Well, I don’t. I can’t do this. I don’t want to keep hurting you all the time. I like you, Pete, I really do, but we can’t go on like this. I can’t go on pretending we’re this cute Hollywood couple when really, everyone knows we aren’t, when _ I _ know we aren’t, when I know that I don’t actually know you at all.”

For a while, neither of them says anything.

“Not even a year of marriage… You’d be the husband I disappointed the fastest.” Pete sounds genuinely sad, guilty almost, which makes Patrick feel even worse about himself.

Patrick shakes his head, playing with the wedding band on his right ring finger as he says: “You didn’t disappoint me. I just got into this with all the wrong kinds of expectations.”

Pete lets out a deep breath, rakes a hand through his short blond hair.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” Pete says after a while. “I don’t know what you want, and it scares me.”

“I’d like us to have a real relationship,” Patrick mumbles quietly.

With slight confusion on his face, Pete leans a little closer. “Sorry, what was that?”

“I said I’d like us to have a real relationship,” Patrick repeats himself, this time louder and more clear.

There’s a parody of his usual smile on Pete’s lips, ugly and twisted. “Patrick, look at me. I know I’m beautiful, and I’m good in bed. That’s what people like about me, that’s why they pay me to advertise their product or marry me. And I’m very fucking good at these things. I’m giving it my all, I go to the gym and I get my hair done and I get my body waxed, I offered everything imaginable in the bedroom... But, if that’s not what you want...”

“You don’t have to give me anything. That’s not what this is about.” Patrick struggles for words, something that isn’t as lame and helpless as he feels, something that will make Pete feel less bad, just anything. “I meant what I said – I want us to have a real relationship. Figure out what we want, what we need, and how to do this – _ us_. You’re more than just a pretty model, and I want to be more than an ignorant rich guy.”

It feels inadequate, and Patrick would like to say more, something eloquent and beautiful that solves all of their issues in just a few dramatic sentences. But this isn’t the third act of a movie, and there’s no easy pre-written dialogue to solve all their conflicts and neatly wrap up their story in a predetermined runtime.

Pete leans in a little closer, just enough to take Patrick’s hand. It’s a simple gesture, and it’s both amazing and scary how much something like this can mean. Patrick laces their fingers together, stares at their wedding bands.

Patrick traces his thumb over the back of Pete’s hand, and asks: “Well, Pete… What _ do _ you want from me?_” _

Pete takes a moment to think before he answers: “Actually, a blowjob would be nice.”

“I… What? Pete, I’m serious.” Surprised by this unexpected answer, Patrick looks up to Pete, who against all odds isn’t smiling or giving any other indication he’s joking.

“Well, so am I.” Pete cocks his head to the right, and he still isn’t smiling or giggling.

Patrick stares at him with furrowed brows, unsure what to make of this. But Pete seems rather serious indeed. After a long, awkward pause, Pete sighs, and withdraws his hand from Patrick’s.

“I’ve sucked your dick plenty of times,” Patrick hurries to say now, trying to defend himself. “I’ve sucked your dick, and might I add, I always swallow.”

“Sure you do, but...” Pete sighs again, and for a moment, it looks like he’s torn between just dropping it or admitting something that doesn’t fit the perfect narrative of their marriage of convenience. He opts for the latter when he continues: “It’s always about you, Patrick. When you give head it’s either just hasty foreplay, or just an afterthought when we fuck and you came first. It’s still nice, but…”

Pete trails off, while Patrick desperately combs his mind, thinks back to every time they had sex as he wonders if Pete has a point. He’s sucked Pete’s cock, he knows he has, and yet… To his own shock and embarrassment, Patrick really can’t recall a single time when it’s just been all about Pete, and Pete alone. Pete never asked, and Patrick never thought twice about it. If he’s being honest with himself, he was kind of relying on at least their sex life being somewhat satisfying, and having to face that even that isn’t true, that there’s yet more troubles added to the seemingly never-ending pile of marital problems… It’s scary. It’s intimidating. It’s frustrating to the very core.

Pete is not the perfect little trophy husband, but what really scares Patrick is that he himself isn’t the better man he so arrogantly thought himself to be either.

“It’s getting late, and it’s been a long day,” Pete interrupts Patrick’s musings, and it’s clear that this is Patrick’s cue to leave.

“Of course,” Patrick hurries to say as he gets up from the couch. He may have been invited to take a small step into Pete’s personal space, but they’re still far from having made up. There’s just one last thing on his mind that he feels needs to be said.

“Thank you.”

Pete cocks his head, brows furrowed in slight confusion. “What for?”

“Nothing. Just for being you.” Patrick sends him a small smile. “And for taking the time to talk with me.”

Pete’s expression softens, and he gets up as well. A moment later, Patrick finds himself in Pete’s arms, hugging him back both with a sense of happiness as well as despair.

There’s nothing Patrick can say to make it all better, there’s no simple solution, it’s going to be a thousand difficult steps until he can make up for every foolish thing he’s done so far, until they can have a real relationship and not just the cheap knockoff acquired with greed and impatience.

For now, Pete kisses him goodnight, and Patrick happily kisses back.

The next day, Patrick feels cautiously optimistic. He got the role for the Disney kids TV series, nothing big, but given the very small pool of voice actors ever getting a job in TV, it’s an accomplishment. They will even let him write that promised song, which Patrick suspects is only because his dad was a great musician and the studio hopes to bank in on that, but he takes what he can get.

Patrick is equipped with newfound determination to work on himself and their marriage’s problems, and also, with a bouquet of flowers. They still have most of the flowers from the shoot brightening up the house, it’s just that Pete was the one who took care of that. It would be nice to make a visible contribution. A small step, sure, but Patrick thinks that small steps and a slow pace are the best approach given their delicate and somewhat uncertain situation.

“You’re acting weird, even by your standards,” Joe remarks as they drive back home. “And that _ you _ includes your husband, too. What’s going on there?”

“We’re working through some issues,” Patrick answers somewhat vaguely, fiddling with the flowers. After all, he’s not all that sure how much Pete wants Joe to know. The two of them have grown to like each other, bonding over their taste in music and Pete’s adoration of little Rose, so Patrick assumes that it’s only fair to let Pete tell his side of the story to Joe.

Joe sends him a skeptical glance through the rearview mirror.

Patrick looks down at his hands, stares at the little golden wedding band. He can smell the hyacinths, and they always makes him think of Pete now.

“Do your best,” Joe just says, and it sounds less like friendly advice and more like an instruction.

Patrick looks up now, and sends him a determined smile in the rearview mirror. “I will.”

All of Patrick’s determination and confidence are called into question when once inside the house, he walks through the spacious living room in search for Pete – only to stumble upon Vicky.

Instantly, the temperature of the room as well as Patrick’s confidence seem to drop. Patrick stutters his way through an awkward greeting, while Vicky looks at him, then at the flowers, and simply says: “Another apology?”

“What?” Patrick asks, slightly confused and not very eloquent.

“The flowers.” Vicky nods her head towards the bouquet. “Do you have another apology to make?”

Patrick looks at the flowers, then at Vicky, than at the floor. Meeting her eyes, cold and confident, is a difficult task. “They’re not for an apology,” Patrick explains nervously, unsure if Vicky even cares. “It’s just… Just a little something.”

Vicky clicks her tongue, crosses her arms over her chest as she leans against the new table where just yesterday, he and Pete pretended to be a picture perfect gay dream couple. The heavy weight of the silence makes Patrick want to flee the scene like he usually does when Vicky is around, but she is Pete’s friend, after all. Turning away and blaming others hasn’t worked in Patrick’s favor so far, and he suspects the same rule applies to her.

With all the courage he can muster, Patrick takes a deep breath, and starts: “Hey, uh, so I know you don’t really like me -”

“_Don’t like you?_” Vicky interrupts him, poison on the tip of her sharp tongue, anger in her voice, “you came out of nowhere, married my best friend behind everyone’s back, and then you acted like a total _ asshole_. So, no, I don’t like you.”

Well, that settles that. It doesn’t come as much of a surprise, and the way Vicky has blurted it out suggests she’s held back on that opinion for quite a while now. That doesn’t mean that hearing it out loud isn’t a verbal punch to the stomach. A deserved one, perhaps.

The dreaded silence settles between them once more. The water from the flowers is dripping to the floor; it’s an uncomfortable deja-vu.

Vicky stares at him with narrowed eyes, and asks: “The apology. Did you mean it?”

“Every word,” Patrick says without hesitation. “I know Pete and I aren’t in a good place, but I really want us to work on that. I want to be a better husband for him. I don’t just want to be another mistake.”

Vicky doesn’t trust him yet, that much Patrick is sure of, but at least she is looking at him with less anger now. “Just to be clear, one apology is not enough to make up for everything,” she says sternly. “You’ll need to work much, much harder than that.”

“I will,” Patrick hurries to assure her, “I want to, really.”

“I’m keeping an eye on you. I won’t let Pete get hurt again,” Vicky says in a low voice, “I’ve been here for Pete’s first two divorces, and I’ll be here for his third.”

She means every word of it, that much Patrick is sure of, and when he meets her eyes again, it finally clicks. Vicky, loyal and concerned friend, a terrible ex with manipulative tactics to control his husband’s life, and Pete, glossing over why he hadn’t told Patrick about his agent’s visit. Pete in pristine white tennis clothes, batting his lashes as he says “_if I don’t tell you that someone is coming over, you can’t say no_”. Pete in the bathtub, scarlet fever and perhaps a tinge of real anxiety coloring his cheeks red when he asks if Vicky’s visit is alright with Patrick. Pete next to Vicky, asking for permission to have her over…

He’s had the puzzle pieces for a while, but it’s here and now that he can finally put them together.

It’s then that Pete himself enters the scene. “I’m sorry for being late,” he singsongs as he walks over to them. He hugs Vicky first, before turning to Patrick with a big smile that feels very out of place. “Hey, babe. Didn’t know you were home already! Aw, and you got me flowers?”

Patrick stares at him, and the dissonance of Pete’s sunny attitude and the dark realizations standing between them is unnerving.

“Patrick. Are you okay?” Pete’s concerned voice tears Patrick out of his stream of bad memories, and he realizes he’s still staring at Pete, wide-eyed and in silence.

Patrick bites his lip, tries to gather himself. “I’m – I’m okay. It’s just...”

He doesn't finish the sentence. Clearly overwhelmed with a struggling Patrick at his hands, Pete turns to Vicky. “What happened to my poor husband?” He asks in the same failed attempt of being lighthearted.

“She didn’t do anything wrong,” Patrick hurries to say, lest there be any more misconceptions. “We just talked.”

“Yeah. We just talked.” Vicky’s voice is softer now that she’s speaking to Pete, who looks at her with uncertainty. “I guess it got your husband thinking.”

There are a lot of questions on Patrick’s tongue, and the answer is already in Pete’s narrowed eyes – not here, and not now. “Thank you for the flowers,” is all Pete says as he takes them from Patrick’s hands, and he isn’t trying to be lighthearted anymore.

“Sure,” Patrick stammers clumsily, “it was just – you got all these beautiful flowers for our house, and I don’t have a hand for it like you do, but... I wanted to contribute a little. Just something small, you know? And hyacinths always make me think of you...”

Pete nods as he eyes the bouquet. “Hyacinths and roses are my favorite,” he says quietly, “and I like yellow flowers best.”

Patrick nods as well. “I’ll remember that for next time.”

For a moment, they just look at each other. 

There are so many unsaid things on the tip of Patrick’s tongue, words like _ I’m sorry _ or _ what else did I not see _ or d _ o you still want this marriage? _ And he doesn’t want them to go unsaid forever, no matter how painful it may be to sit down and have an honest conversation.

Patrick reaches for Pete's hand, squeezes it lightly. “When… If you want to talk… I'll be there for you, Pete. There's - there's no pressure, I just want you to know that.”

Pete sends him a small, but honest smile. He cups Patrick's face with his other hand, gently traces his thumb over Patricks lips before leaning in for a kiss. 

“I know that,” Pete says afterwards, with a small, but sincere smile. It makes Patrick feel a little better, that his husband trusts him to be there for him. It feels - well, like a real relationship (or at least, a step in the right direction). 

Now, all Patrick can hope for is that Pete wants to walk the same path as him.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!
> 
> Looks like Pete might open up a little - and believe me, he has a lot to say. We will hear more of that next chapter... :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, and welcome back!  
We have some more talking, and maybe, that blowjob Pete demanded last chapter... You'll see!
> 
> In order to make the deadline, this chapter is unbeta'd. Please have mercy with me. 
> 
> Quote is from Mitski's "Brand New City" and I know, I just knew the song and the quote would make it into the moodboards. As much as it hurts, it's one of my favorite Mitski lyrics ever. Trophy husband Pete agrees with me, haha!

It is another wonderful sunny day in LA, the sun outshining all the stars and starlets.

When Patrick steps outside of the comfy air-conditioned studio, he only has a grimace for the sudden bright light and extensive warmth. Thankfully, the decadent luxury of his nearby car spares him from a sunburn and being even more sweaty. Before he drives off, Patrick fumbles for his phone.

These days, he doesn’t look at his phone in anticipation for semi-dirty, vaguely voyeuristic photos that Pete might send him. Their conversations are way more mundane these days, like making plans for dinner (they’ve decided to stay home today) or Pete asking him if he knows what outfit to Patrick wants to wear to the gallery opening (Patrick admits he doesn’t know yet) or, like now, Patrick telling him about how his day at the studio went (as uneventful as most table reading days). To his surprise, Patrick likes this a lot more.

When he comes home, Patrick finds Pete in the garden, sitting cross-legged on the grass, blowing bubbles for an excited little Rose. The shimmering bubbles float through the air, with the giggling toddler clumsily running behind them, trying to catch the elusive, fragile constructs and squealing with delight when they turn to nothing but a soapy mess in her hands. Pete watches her, a sweet smile on his lips, only interrupted when he takes a deep breath to blow more bubbles.

“Hey there,” Pete says when he notices Patrick. “I volunteered to babysit. Care to join us?”

Patrick smiles back, it would be impossible not to. “I’d love to,” he says softly as he sits down next to Pete, who moves some of the plushies to the other side to make room for him. It’s only now that Patrick notices that the little black teddy bear he gifted to Pete is among the pile.

“We named him Mister Bear,” Pete explains when he sees Patrick’s curious gaze, “he and Rose’s crew are the best friends.”

Meanwhile, Rose has run back to remind Pete that he needs to keep blowing new bubbles for her to try to catch. “’ete!” She half-shouts, half-laughs, almost tripping over her tongue and her feet as she tries to catch up with her own excitement, “bubbles, ’ete! ‘eeete!”

Pete laughs, and holds up his hands. “Aw, I’m sorry, sweetie, I’ll get to work again!” With that, he takes another deep breath, then produces more shimmering bubbles. Rose turns around and half-runs, half-stumbles after them, tiny hands in the air trying to grasp them.

“She’s the cutest, isn’t she?” Pete remarks as he watches Rose playing. “And her parents are awesome.”

Patrick nods. “She is, and they are.”

“Jeremy didn’t like me being too friendly with our staff,” Pete says quietly, eyes fixed on the happy toddler. “He said I shouldn’t fraternize with our _ employees_.” Pete makes air quotes to signal that his ex probably used a way less favorable term. “It always started out small. _ Don’t bother the staff, they’re supposed to be working. Don’t get too personal with them, you’re making it awkward. Be glad you’re so pretty, babyboy, or you’d just be one of them. _ He always said I was a bother. A bother to everyone.”

Patrick thinks back to Pete, with baby Rose in his arms, asking if spending time with her and bonding with Marie and Joe was alright with Patrick. Pete’s excitement when he met Joe and Travie, and the surprising lack of friends Pete brought home himself until Vicky came along. Now, it all makes so much more sense.

“He didn’t like you being friends with anyone, did he?” Patrick asks cautiously. “That’s why Vicky is so suspicious of me. She thinks I’m just like him.”

Pete shrugs, doesn’t turn his head to face Patrick when he mumbles: “Jeremy hated Vicky. And more than that, he hated when I was with her, because she dared to speak up against him. So, he bullied her out of my life – like he did with everyone else...” He sighs, nervously rakes his hand through his bleach-blond hair. “It sounds insane, doesn’t it? Like I’m a total idiot. But you don’t know Jeremy, he was – he is so good at manipulating and intimidating people.”

Before Patrick can think of anything to say, Rose has come back. She looks at Pete, then Patrick, then points at the bubbles and declares: “You too.”

“I think she wants you to blow some bubbles as well,” Pete says with a smile as he gently tucks a loose strand of hair behind Rose’s ear. “Is that what you want, sweetie? Should Uncle Patrick make some bubbles, too?”

“Yes! Too!” Rose repeats excitedly, looking at Patrick with her big blue eyes and a smile showing off a row of tiny teeth. Patrick remembers Joe complaining about sleepless nights when Rose was teething, has it been that long?

Patrick smiles back at her, shakily, as he takes the bubbles from Pete. They’re colorful and pretty, and doomed to last no longer than a few fleeting moments before bursting and vanishing into thin air. There’s a metaphor somewhere in this, he thinks as he watches how the bubbles he blows are floating through the air, Rose running after them. Sitting next to a man he married out of a selfish whim, surrounded by money he didn’t really earn, as someone else’s darling little girl reminds them both of a life they don’t have… A perfect opportunity for sad music, a cut to the bubbles, close-up to Patrick’s shaky smile as he and the audience watch the allegory for all his hopes and dreams burst one by one.

Reality is more prosaic, rewards Patrick’s realizations with nothing more than an aching heart and, much to his dismay, the burn of tears in his eyes. Not only for himself, but for Pete as well. For everything that happened, and for everything they are and aren’t. The melancholic look on Pete’s pretty face as he watches Rose play – this can’t be what Pete hoped for either.

“When is life finally going to be easy?” Pete says after a while. “I’m in my thirties, and I’m so _ done_. I just want to live my life. Work. Have a husband, have some kids, some dogs, have a family.”

“Pete, I think you’d be a good dad. You’d be a _ great _ dad. But – maybe not at this point in life. Hear me out,” Patrick hurries to say as Pete sends him an offended glare, “we have our problems. I have my own issues to work on. And even if I was a better spouse...”

Pete still stares at him, but says nothing.

“Pete… Are you getting the help you need?” Patrick asks softly. “Do you have a therapist, or any other professional?”

“That’s – that’s none of your business,” Pete says with only the fraction of the anger these words held back when they fought.

“You don’t need to tell me. I just think… We’re not in a good place to have kids. And I’m not going to be like my parents, and have a kid to fix a bad marriage. Look how that turned out.” Patrick scoffs, and gestures towards himself.

“Well, my parents are still happily married, and look how _ that _ turned out.” Pete rolls his eyes as he imitates Patrick and gestures towards himself. “I don’t know what your deal with your parents is because you don’t actually ever _ tell _ me, but you can’t blame them for your mess.”

“Okay, I got that wrong. I don’t want to put all the blame on my parents for everything in my life,” Patrick corrects himself, “but if I have kids, I want to be sure I don’t mess it up like… Like I messed it up with you.”

For a while, they both stay silent as they watch how Rose, exhausted from running around, now turned her attention to her stuffed animals.

“I’m sorry you got tricked into marrying damaged goods,” Pete says with such a resigned sense of self-deprecation, it makes Patrick’s heart ache again.

Patrick shakes his head. “You’re not damaged goods, or a bother, or anything else your shitty ex told you.”

“You believe me, right?” There’s fear in Pete’s eyes, but the determination in his voice and posture outweighs any insecurity. “You’re not like the lawyers and journalists who tell me I should just get over it, that our fights were just a few heated words, you’re not one of those people who think Jeremy was a great husband just because he didn’t hit me, are you? You don’t think a lack of physical violence means he was never brutal, never cruel, that he didn’t find ways to hurt me?”

As much as Patrick would like to claim that he’s perfectly innocent and better than those people he looked down at, it would be a lie. “I bought into it to some degree,” Patrick admits, not without shame. “I would never excuse the abuse your exes did, never. But I need to be honest. I _ did _ close my eyes to some of it. I _ did _ buy into the image of you being a frivolous party boy who’s cashing in on his divorce for the attention. I _ did _ shove what I knew into the back of my mind because not dealing with it was easier.”

Pete lets out a deep breath, and looks away. Rose is walking over to them now, dragging her plushie behind her and rubbing her eyes.

“Are you tired too, sweetie?” Pete asks in a soothing voice as he takes Rose into his arms. She nods, then buries her head in his shoulders. “Aw, you are? Then let’s get you down for a nap.”

Slowly, Pete gets up first, leans down to first pick up all the stuffed animals Rose hands him, then Rose herself. She mumbles something Patrick can’t understand, which makes Pete smile, then hand the black teddy bear back to Patrick.

“She wants you to have Mister Bear to watch over you,” Pete explains to a slightly confused Patrick.

“Thank you, dear,” Patrick says with a smile to Rose, who smiles back, and buries her head in the crook of Pete’s neck again.

Patrick watches the two of them leave; brings the teddy up to his face, feels the soft fur brushing against his cheek. He really feels like calling his mom, and that’s not just because he’s crying into a stuffed animal.

  
  
  


Patrick doesn’t see Pete again before the evening. But they text, Pete sends him a cute snapshot of a sleeping Rose, and posts a preview of his (sponsored) outfit for the gallery opening tomorrow.

They do meet for dinner – at home, at Pete’s request. After all, they’re paying for the convenience of the high cuisine meal delivery.

Their conversation is more lighthearted this time. Pete talks about work, how he’s looking forward to shoot with Hayley again, about the gallery opening; seeing him all eager and excited makes Patrick smile. And when Pete smiles back at him, all sweet sunshine and genuine happiness, Patrick wonders how he could ever live without seeing Pete smile like that, how he could ever look at Pete and not feel all warm and soft and protective.

Afterwards, they clean up together, and while Patrick opts for making himself some tea, Pete settles for his weird protein shakes again. They sit next to each other without talking, but for once, the silence between them isn’t awkward. Pete is scrolling through his phone, while Patrick stares into his tea, lost in his own thoughts.

“Hey, that sounds nice. What song is that?” Pete asks, and it’s only now that Patrick notices that he’s been absentmindedly humming to himself.

“It’s the song from the Disney show I’m working on.” Patrick feels himself blush a little as he takes a sip of his now luke-warm tea. “It’s just the early stages, I’m nowhere near done and the studio hasn’t approved.”

Pete reaches out to put his hand on Patrick’s. “I like it. I’m sure you’ll do an awesome job.”

With all the courage he can muster, Patrick nods, and says: “You can… You can listen to the first draft when it’s done, if you want.”

“Of course I want to! I like your work, and...” Pete hesitates, then adds: “And it kind of hurts me that you never really share anything about it with me. I always told you that I like your work, why don’t you trust me on that?”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you. I think… It’s more that I don’t trust myself. And then I put the blame on someone else and don’t talk about it, and think it won’t be my fault if I get hurt.” Patrick sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I know, it’s stupid, and I’m sorry. I’m trying not to fall back into that pattern.”

Pete stays silent, but he squeezes Patrick’s hand in reassurance. Patrick smiles weakly as he squeezes back, and wonders how many more apologies and patience Pete is going to grant him. He wonders if it’s going to be enough, if it’s going to help them build a real relationship, or if it’s been too late for that already. He wonders if it’s ever enough to make up for the hurt he caused Pete. He wonders when he should ask all these questions, and if Pete is even willing to answer them.

While Patrick is caught up in his worries, Pete turns to him, takes both of Patrick’s hands into his.

“Hey. Let’s not be so negative all the time,” Pete says softly, and Patrick knows there’s so much else to be said, he knows, but it’s just so difficult when Pete leans in for a tender kiss.

All Patrick can do, wants to do is kiss back, oh, he’d happily just kiss Pete forever. That is until Pete grinds his hips against Patrick’s, whispers a soft moan against Patrick’s lips; Patrick can feel the heat of Pete’s arousal, as well as Pete’s hard-on, pressing against him.

As much as Patrick is aware that Pete likes to avoid confrontation and conversation with the offer of sex (an offer that Patrick has always gladly taken, he has to admit not without shame),

“Pete… Do you still want that blowjob?” Patrick asks breathlessly, his hands on the small of Pete’s back, tracing circles over his smooth skin.

“I sure do,” Pete answers with a grin, and leans in for another kiss.

The relief that Patrick feels – that Pete still wants this, still wants _ him _ – is only overshadowed by his passion and eagerness to finally do this _ right_. Part of Patrick wants to drop to his knees and suck Pete’s cock right here and now. It would be delightful and dirty, but Patrick thinks this might need to be a bit more special. Patrick thinks that perhaps, Pete trying to balance himself against the kitchen counter while getting his dick sucked sounds like a bad idea, sounds like another thing they should talk about, totally, definitely, as soon as he can focus on anything other than Pete’s throbbing erection.

“Let’s take this to the bedroom,” Patrick proposes with a groan, and Pete grins again, takes Patrick’s hand, and only almost trips once as they hurry upstairs.

There are more kisses, there are Pete’s hands slipping under Patrick’s shirt, more soft moans as Patrick undoes Pete’s pants. Pete tugs at Patrick’s shirt, and Patrick lets him take it off, his glasses almost falling off in the hasty process. Pete chuckles, lighthearted and fun, which makes Patrick forget to be somewhat self-conscious as he takes off his glasses and puts them on the bed stand, lest they get in the way again.

Patrick gently motions him to lay down, and Pete, now shirtless as well, does. This time, he doesn’t follow his habit of leaning back, resting his arms over his head, waiting for Patrick to take the lead. Pete has one hand on his dick, stroking himself, slowly, but with confidence as he watches a nervous Patrick climb into bed. This isn’t Pete’s usual act in the bedroom, and it isn’t just a simple blowjob either.

Ah, but Pete still looks so beautiful sprawled out on the sheets, already naked, his golden skin a nice contrast to white sheets. Patrick wants him so much, and not because Pete is pretty, or because Patrick can project all his silly fantasies onto him. Patrick wants him so much his heart aches because when Patrick looks at Pete, sees the curve of his smile, the warmth in his eyes as he looks at Patrick like he’s someone special – all Patrick craves is to make him happy.

“I’m lucky to be with you,” Patrick mumbles as he sits between Pete’s spread legs, lets his hand trail down from Pete’s chest to his groin. “Not – not because of the trophy husband shit, but – because you’re _ you_.”

It doesn’t sound poetic and Patrick isn’t sure if he could fully express what he actually means even if they weren’t in the middle of foreplay, but Pete still smiles back at him, teasingly tugs at his cock again. “Want to take over for me?”

“I’d love to,” Patrick answers breathlessly. When he wraps his hand around Pete’s erection, hard and hot under his touch, Pete moans in approval, arches his back in search for more.

More is exactly what’s on Patrick’s mind as well. He leaves a trail of kisses from Pete’s throat down to his chest, abs, until his lips find the velvet-smooth head of his cock, his tongue tasting the drip of precum.

“C’mon, don’t be a tease,” Pete whines as he arches his back again, and Patrick smiles to himself.

“Shh, babe, just let me take care of you-”

“_No_.”

Pete’s voice is loud and firm. He sits up enough to put his hand on Patrick’s chest, and while he doesn’t shove Patrick away, the message is more than clear.

Somewhat confused and afraid to have done something wrong, Patrick sits up too, anxiously looking at Pete.

“Don’t _ shh _ me,” Pete says in a low voice, making air quotes as he imitates the shh sound. “You keep doing that, you keep shushing me and it makes me so _ angry_.”

“Huh. I… I do that?” Patrick reflexively puts his hand over his mouth, as if that could take back all the carelessly uttered words. His first instinct is to argue that he didn’t mean it, that it’s just a misunderstanding, that – that, as Patrick realizes once more with frightful clarity, he doesn’t want to take responsibility for his mistakes. Disregarding Pete’s feelings and insisting that a lack of bad intentions makes up for all the hurt he might have caused sounds very much like what Joe called _ shifting blame_, and what Vicky called _ acting like a total asshole_.

Pete furrows his brows. “Yes, you do. And I don’t want you to do that again.”

Slowly, Patrick nods. “I’m sorry I didn’t notice, and I won’t do it again.”

“Glad we got that out of the way.” The tension vanishes from Pete, and he lets out a deep breath as he leans back into the pillows. “So… Can I still get my blowjob?”

Not without a guilty conscience, Patrick bites his lip. “Of course, if you want…?”

Pete rolls his eyes at him. “Fuck yes, I want!”

Patrick silently vows to himself that next time – should Pete want a next time – he’s going to do this better. For now, he leans in to peck a kiss to Pete’s cheek, who laughs, and then draws him in for a kiss on the lips, before saying: “Seriously, enough with the teasing. Suck my dick, please.”

It doesn’t take long to get Pete’s dick back into hardness. Despite the interruption, Pete seems determined to enjoy the long overdue blowjob. He’s generous with the moans as Patrick’s tongue trails over his dick, his mouth slowly taking in Pete’s aching length further. Pete watches as Patrick gets to work, his pretty eyes looking at Patrick with nothing but want. Patrick sends him what he hopes is a seductive gaze, and Pete grins back at him before another loud moan escapes him when the head of his dick hits the back of Patrick’s throat. It’s not a treat Patrick can always offer, he’ll need to be more careful when they’re starting the actual recording, but for now, he’s more than happy to please Pete in every way he can.

One of Pete’s hands is carding through Patrick’s hair, a gentle touch because Pete would never force anything, he never shoves or pushes or holds Patrick down (even though Patrick is sure that after all the hours in the gym, Pete easily could); why Pete has such an aversion to any kind of violence, Patrick can only guess, but he thinks his guess would be pretty accurate after everything he knows of Pete and his past two marriages, the first one of them ending with such a grim disaster, Pete never so much as mentions the marriage at all.

Despite the emotional mess, Patrick must be doing something right, because Pete is clearly having his more lighthearted fun with this blowjob. Patrick tries to focus more on that, to be more in the moment, because Pete deserves this. He deserves a lot more. Patrick doesn’t know if he can give him that, but right now, he’s certain never wanted anything more in his life than to make Pete happy.

“’m close,” Pete pants, his hand still carding through Patrick’s hair, “I’m gonna…!”

It doesn’t take long for Pete to come, with that sweet little “oh” falling from his lips as Patrick makes sure to swallow every drop. Seeing, hearing, feeling, tasting Pete’s pleasure is pure joy; Patrick’s own half-hard cock, neglected throughout the blowjob, would argue it’s more than that, but Patrick tries to pay no mind. This is about Pete, after all.

“This is about you,” Patrick therefore stammers as Pete pulls him closer, slides his hands down between Patrick’s legs. “You don’t – ah, you don’t need to...”

“I know,” Pete whispers as he undoes the fly of Patrick’s pants, “I may like to be spoiled, but I don’t like to be selfish.”

Whatever weak argument Patrick may have, it is forgotten the moment Pete closes his hand around his growing erection. Patrick doesn’t last long, but he doesn’t care; Pete’s touch feels so good, and Patrick feels so lucky, and not just because of the great orgasm.

Afterwards, Patrick sinks into the mattress next to Pete, breathing heavily. He opens his arms, and Pete cuddles up to him with a small laugh. For a while, there’s just calm bliss as Patrick’s fingertips gently trace over Pete’s inked skin. He feels goosebumps, and Pete’s chest rising and falling as he lets out a soft sigh.

“Mmm, I like this,” Pete whispers, and leans back a little so he can look at Patrick. “The tenderness… when did we lose this part of our marriage?”

“I don’t think we ever really had it,” Patrick whispers back.

Sadness tugs at Pete’s smile. He doesn’t disagree, which, despite everything, is somewhat of a relief to Patrick – at least they can be honest with each other now. That’s worth far more than any pretty illusion.

“I want more of this,” Pete says after while, thoughtful eyes still looking at Patrick. “Do you think we could do that?”

Patrick gently cups Pete’s face in his hands, leans in to peck a small kiss to his forehead. “Yes,” he mumbles as Pete chuckles, then mirrors the gesture, “yes, I think we can.”

“Just to be clear, I also still want more blowjobs,” Pete adds afterwards.

“You can have all the blowjobs you want. And whatever else you want, please tell me, Pete. Don’t just try to guess what _ I _ could like in bed, like last time.” Patrick pauses, then adds: “Just… When I’m actually recording, we need to be a bit more careful when I blow you. I do make money with my voice, after all.”

Pete shakes his head. “I don’t mind.”

“Well, others have.” Patrick traces over his lips, sighs. “I always got the most compliments for my mouth. And more than once, the guys I’ve been with didn’t like when I didn’t delivered what they wanted from it.”

“Well, I know that feeling.” Pete wiggles himself out of Patrick’s embrace, rolls over on his stomach, and props his head on his hands. “You asked me what I want out of this marriage. What if I don’t know the answer?”

The way Pete looks at him, the wariness in his voice – Patrick knows this isn’t about just sex anymore.

Patrick takes a deep breath as he mentally prepares himself for a conversation he doesn’t really enjoy and yet so desperately wants to have, because he knows they need it. “You know… You don’t need to stay for the money, or anything. You have a prenup, but… We can get you a good postnup, too. You’ll get the house, you’ll get all the money you need.”

“Did I hear that right?” Pete, sounding slightly confused, cocks his head, leans in a little closer. “I get the house?”

“You’ll get the house, Pete. Absolutely.” Patrick firmly nods. When he first met Pete, Pete was basically living out of his Louis Vuitton-suitcases in expensive hotels he couldn’t really afford, probably screwed over in more than one way by a shitty rich ex-husband that threw him away when Pete no longer pleased him. Now that Patrick is slowly overcoming his own awfully arrogant attitude towards Pete, he realizes how horrible that must’ve been for him. “I own two more properties, and I got enough money. I’ll have a place to live. Besides, you’re friends with Joe already, and you’ve put so much time and effort into making this your home...”

Silence lingers as Pete stares at the messy sheets, lower lip caught between his pearly-white, bleached teeth. “You can’t expect me to give you a definitive answer right away,” Pete says hesitantly after a while.

Patrick shakes his head. “I don’t. Take all the time you need.”

With that, Pete sighs, and gets up. He heads for the master bathroom, without the offer of any sexual distractions from heavy emotional topics this time. Patrick gets up as well, and gets ready for bed. He expects that Pete retreats to his own part of the house again, like every other night.

Instead, when Pete comes out of the bathroom again, he sneaks back into bed. The little teddy bear is sitting on Patrick's side of the bed, where he put it after Pete - or rather, Rose - gave it to him, and Patrick catches Pete grin to himself when he notices that. He is wearing the Bowie-shirt Patrick gave him when he was sick, and that Pete kept it and decided to wear it again is a sweet gesture. Not that Pete doesn’t look gorgeous in almost everything he wears, but he looks especially gorgeous when he’s just in a simple shirt and boxers, laying in bed next to Patrick, smiling like he means it. They’re not cuddling, but Pete’s presence feels comforting.

“You’ll get it back if you want,” Pete offers when he notices how Patrick looks at the shirt, “we can put that in the postnup.”

“Keep it,” Patrick says with a laugh that’s half amusement, half tension-relief.

“Hey, Pete. I’d like to invite my mom,” Patrick says after a while. “I haven’t seen her in a while, and… I’ve been pretty awful to her. I’m sure she’d like to meet you as well, if you want to?”

Pete looks surprised at first, but then he grins, and nods. “Actually, that would be awesome.”

As much as Patrick is glad to hear that, there’s another question on his mind that he can’t stop himself from asking. “Pete, what about your family?”

Pete shrugs, though he doesn’t come off as nonchalant as the gesture might suggest. “I haven’t seen my parents or siblings or anyone else from my family really in quite a while. It’s been… Difficult. My parents didn’t like that I abandoned college for soccer, they didn’t like that I abandoned soccer for modeling, they didn’t like the guys I married. It’s always been difficult, and then when I married Jeremy, well. The dislike was mutual, and you know what happens to things Jeremy doesn’t like?” With a scornful scoff, Pete gestures towards himself. “He gets rid of them.”

Patrick grimaces. “You know, the more I hear about him, the worse he sounds.”

“That’s the scary thing.” Eyes narrowed, Pete stares at the sheets again. “You don’t know him, but Jeremy could be so different. He is smart and educated, he can be so charming if needed, he has money and if he wants something, he’s ready to spend a lot of it to get what he wants.” Once more, Pete gestures towards himself. “And if Jeremy wants something, he is _ very _ good at getting it, no matter what.”

There is unabashed anger behind these words, resentment and frustration and a flash of fury in Pete’s amber eyes that Patrick hasn’t seen before. There is so much more about Pete he doesn’t know, so much he doesn’t even know how or when to ask for, so much that Patrick doesn’t feel equipped to deal with all by himself especially given his bad track record in this relationship already, which reminds Patrick of something else he’s wondered about.

Patrick tries to sound as neutral as possible when he asks: “Hey, Pete. I’ve been thinking… What about couple therapy?”

Pete doesn’t answer right away; he keeps avoiding Patrick’s eyes, which isn’t very encouraging. “I don’t know,” he mumbles after a while, “more therapy? Do I need more fixing?”

“It’s not about fixing you,” Patrick says nervously. “It’s about us. Our relationship. I guess. I’ve never been to couples therapy, but I’d like to try. If you want to.”

“I don’t know,” Pete repeats quietly.

“That’s fine,” Patrick says, although he’s kind of hoped Pete would be a bit more open to the suggestion. “Just… The offer stands, okay?”

Pete nods slowly, and Patrick can’t tell how successful his proposal has really been. For now, Pete scoots closer, and takes Patrick into his arms, and although Patrick thinks this might be a bit of a distraction, he can’t help but lean into the touch. There’s more to be said, more to be done, another thousand steps ahead of them. For now, Patrick is tired, and Pete looks just as exhausted. For now, Patrick is warm and comfortable in Pete’s arms, and it feels so good to be this close to him again.

For now, Pete kisses him goodnight, and Patrick feels a spark of hope that maybe, everything will work out for them.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank youz so much for reading!~
> 
> Patrick is trying so hard, what could go wrong! Right? Next time, we will see the gallery opening, and we will meet a certain someone - maybe you can guess who...


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! I made it in time for the weekly Sunday update. 
> 
> Thanks to Snitches for beta reading and being your usual helpful and amazing self!
> 
> Lyrics, or rather this time, album title taken from Mitski.

“I don’t know how I feel about this.”

Patrick stares into the mirror. His reflection stares back, dressed in a red shirt and a black leather jacket that feels weird on him. Simple, but classy and more like something Pete would wear.

“Babe. It’s not a black tie event,” Pete says patiently. “It’s a little gallery opening, and you know Travie. We’re supposed to have fun and express our creativity.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Patrick answers, although it’s kind of what he means because unlike Pete, he doesn’t actually know anything about the art world. Or how to express creativity in outfits. 

This is not how Patrick imagined their life to be, Pete taking _ him _ shopping, waiting around while Patrick anxiously tries on five different outfits and can’t decide on anything. And Patrick is glad his skewed expectations were all wrong, because it’s actually quite nice to be out with Pete, have his support and help, do things like… Like a normal couple would.

It’s not like Patrick can’t dress himself, it’s just that ever since he can remember, there have been three options: He can wear whatever because nobody cares, or it’s a formal event where he can get a nice suit from a tailor, or someone else with more taste is paid to dress him, like it’s mostly been the case when he gets his picture taken with Pete.

Patrick bites his lip. His reflection looks at him with the same insecurities in his eyes, wondering if a very uncool chubby guy in his thirties with a very fashionable husband can pull off an expensive leather jacket without looking ridiculous.

Meanwhile, Pete gets up from his chair, walks over to Patrick. He tugs at the jacket, brows furrowed in concentration as he motions Patrick to spin for him. “It suits you well,” Pete concludes as he tugs at the jacket one last time, then puts his hand on Patrick’s blushing cheek. Patrick turns his head to meet Pete’s eyes, and the butterflies he still gets when Pete smiles at him are absurd.

At a second thought, Patrick assumes it’s what happens when one skips the part of actual dating, and goes straight into a messy marriage. Everything they rushed through, everything they didn’t have time to feel, that Patrick didn’t allow himself to feel, it’s all coming back now and it’s hitting Patrick _ hard_.

“Thanks,” Patrick mumbles as he tries to remember how to form a smile with his mouth, tries to remember how to hold an actual conversation while in proximity to Pete, especially now that Pete rests his chin on Patrick’s shoulder, hugs him from behind as they both stare at their reflections.

“Really, it looks great on you, babe,” Pete declares, his reflection sending Patrick a big grin. “You won’t need to worry about the gallery opening.”

“I do worry a bit,” Patrick confesses as he glances at his reflection again. “I don’t really know anything about the art world. Or art in general. For what little I know, I usually rely on Travie… I’m afraid you’ll need to help me out a little.”

Pete nods, press a little kiss to Patrick’s cheek. “Don’t worry, I will. You’ll be fine. It’s going to be fun!”

Despite still being somewhat anxious, Patrick can’t help but smile to himself. With Pete at his side, it’s definitely going to be fun. With Pete at his side, everything seems like fun, partially because Pete’s excitement and joy is simply infectious, and partially because Patrick thinks he’s already halfway into being hopelessly in love with his husband. It is as beautiful as it is scary. It is warm smiles and soft kisses and his heart skipping a beat when Pete takes his hand, slings an arm around his waist, cuddles up to him when they sit on the couch. It is cold fear and endless worries about everything that happened between them and their still uncertain future.

“Yes,” Patrick answers nonetheless, turns his head to peck a kiss to Pete’s temple, “yes, it’s going to be fun.”

  
  


It’s been a day of shopping, Starbucks, a nice dinner, and all of it spent with Pete. It’s almost like they’re actually dating, were it not for the golden wedding rings on their fingers already.

Currently, Pete is sprawled out on the couch, half-undressed already, his hard, blood-red dick in Patrick’s hand.

“You don’t need to,” Pete pants even as he arches into the touch, “I – ah, it can be my turn...”

“I want to,” Patrick says. “I am so not done sucking your dick.”

“Huh,” Pete says, then grins, and decides to lean back and trade talking for the offered blowjob.

It’s not that Patrick doesn’t appreciate Pete’s offer, and Patrick’s own dick sure loves Pete’s mouth on it. But Patrick still has a few favors to return, and more than that, he’s really enjoying this. There’s a difference between the delightful desperation of fucking an unattainable dream, and having sex with Pete. Patrick thinks he very much prefers the latter.

Pete still makes good on his offer after he’s come; he motions Patrick to lay on his back, and almost manages to fall off the couch as they change positions, being a little too eager and uncoordinated. That doesn’t stop Pete from pulling Patrick’s pants down, taking his dick in his hand, grinning when Patrick moans. Without much teasing, Pete leans in, and takes Patrick’s dick into his mouth.

It’s overwhelming almost, both physically and emotionally. It’s been a while, and more importantly, a whole lot happened since the last time Pete sucked his dick. Pete’s skills are still amazing, he looks beautiful with his lips wrapped around Patrick’s dick, feels fantastic, no doubt – but it’s no longer just those superficial pleasures that make this such a breathtaking experience. What matters more is that it’s not just something Pete is doing because he sees it as a marital duty in his perfect trophy husband play, not something Patrick takes for granted because he handed Pete a ring and a credit card.

Patrick doesn’t last long, but that doesn’t bother him. And afterwards, Pete cuddles up to him again, sighs in content as he splays his hand over Patrick’s chest. Patrick smiles to himself, buries his nose in Pete’s bleach-blond hair. It smells of sweat and Pete’s expensive shampoo and other styling products, but most importantly, it smells like Pete.

For a while, they just cuddle, caught up in their own thoughts. It’s a comfortable silence, and Patrick is close to just falling asleep. Pete must’ve noticed, because he gently squeezes Patrick’s shoulder, and asks if they should go to bed.

Slowly, Pete is getting back into Patrick’s life again; he’s spending another night sleeping next to Patrick, his clothes are already strewn all over the master bedroom, his various beauty products litter the master bathroom, and even the little black teddy bear is back on Pete’s side of the bed.

Since the mood is pretty good and relaxed right now, Patrick decides to try and talk about something that’s been on his mind especially every since Pete mentioned wanting kids.

“Hey, Pete. How about we get a dog?”

The answer to that is immediate. “No,” Pete declares firmly, not even looking up from his phone. “No way.”

“No? You didn’t even think about it!” Patrick stammers, irritated by Pete’s complete refusal.

Pete shakes his head. He’s still staring at his phone, but he’s stopped scrolling, and it seems more like avoidance than anything. “Believe me, I’ve thought about it. A lot.”

That doesn’t clear things up for Patrick at all. “Then why not? I got the impression you like dogs. You put them in the prenup, even! I’m not going to fight you on that, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Pete sighs, puts his phone away, but says nothing. Patrick waits for a while, until the silence becomes an awkward burden for the both of them.

“Pete? I don’t mean to pry or pressure you,” Patrick starts gently, “I just don’t understand your decision. You say you’ve thought about it a lot. Do you want to share that with me?”

Again, Pete sighs, rests his head on his knees as he sends Patrick a wary look. “It’s not you,” Pete says eventually, “it’s me, actually.”

“You?” Patrick repeats, still puzzled. “How so?”

“Because my dog now has to stay with my piece of shit ex husband, who turned my poor Bowie into another pawn in our awful divorce to hurt me.”

It takes Patrick a moment to process that information. Buried deep somewhere inside his memory, he can recall some gossip about the divorce, how there’s a fight for the custody of a dog, but Patrick had always assumed that’s just silly scandalized nonsense. Fighting for custody of a dog sounded ridiculous to him at that time, like something a spoiled little starlet would make up just for press coverage and PR. But that’s neither who Pete is, nor what motivates him, especially in this divorce.

“I didn’t know you had a dog,” Patrick says softly.

“I _ have _ a dog,” Pete corrects him stubbornly. “I took the responsibility, and it went terribly wrong. I can’t do that again. And I can’t get a new dog and pretend Bowie doesn’t exist when I know that I’m the one – I’m the one who brought him into this mess.”

“What happened?” Patrick hesitates, thinking back to how Pete never so much as mentioned this, and adds: “You don’t need to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“Actually...” Pete trails off, then takes a deep breath. “No. Let me tell you. See, I want kids. I always wanted kids, even when back when I was with Jeremy. Well, Jeremy said no, so I settled for a dog.” Pete shrugs, like he always does when he’s trying to act like what he’s about to say doesn’t hurt him all that much. “Jeremy didn’t want a dog either, but… After a bad fight, he went out and bought me a dog, and it seemed like a nice gesture. Jeremy was good at that, giving me just enough of what I wanted to bully me into shutting up and being grateful. Of course, when we divorced, I wanted the dog - I was the one who took care of Bowie, who cared for him, who loves him, and Jeremy _ hated _ the dog. He hated _ everything _ that I loved that wasn’t him. But what Jeremy hated even more was that I could get out of the divorce without feeling completely and entirely torn apart. So, he took the dog.”

“_How?_” Patrick asks incredulously.

“Well, he was the one who bought it, the dog license and all the other paperwork was in his name, so he was the legal owner. That’s how the divorce court ruled, anyway. My lawyers and I tried everything, but…” Pete grimaces, shakes his head. “There was nothing I could do, and then I ran out of money.”

“That’s awful,” Patrick whispers, more to himself than to Pete. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Pete turns his head to him, brows furrowed. “Sorry, what was that?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Patrick repeats, and Pete scoffs at him.

“Because I didn’t want to talk about it. Because I didn’t want you to remind me. Because you were _stupid_ and you _didn’t_ _care_ and that seemed like the perfect basis for a relationship in which I could pretend everything was just _fine_ for once.”

That last sentence isn’t just about the dog, that much Patrick is sure of. It hurts to hear, but there’s nothing much he can argue against it because it’s kind of true. Apparently, Pete had reasons to marry him other than financial stability, and Patrick cringes at himself when he thinks that this is one of them. This is all so much more complicated.

“I’m sorry I called you stupid,” Pete mumbles as he wipes away a stray tear.

“Thanks, but you kinda have a point.” Patrick sighs to himself. “I was stupid, and I didn’t really care.”

Pete stays silent, just wipes over his eyes again.

“Pete, I’m sorry about your dog.”

“No, _ I’m _ sorry. Just like Jeremy wanted it.” Pete turns his head away again, and sniffles a little. He’s still torn between anger and sadness, that much Patrick can see. Patrick wants to say something clever, do something good to make it all better, but nothing comes to mind.

“Can we not talk about this anymore?” Pete says in a small voice.

Although Patrick doesn’t feel like this topic is done yet, he nods. For now, Pete doesn’t want to keep talking about it, and they already made a lot of progress. It might be best to let it rest for today, and perhaps see if Pete wants to bring it up another time.

When they lay down again, Pete rests his head on Patrick’s chest, lets Patrick put an arm around his waist. That Pete is so trusting, that he’s willing to be so vulnerable in Patrick’s presence feels way more intimate and way less like Patrick is exploiting him than any time Pete has offered control to him during sex.

“I’m looking forward to tomorrow,” Pete mumbles after a while, “the gallery opening will be fun.”

It’s clear that he’s trying to distract, that he wants to talk about something happier, and Patrick can’t blame him.

“I had a great day with you,” Patrick answers him, “and I’m sure tomorrow will be great as well.”

He hears Pete chuckle; Pete lifts his head to peck a goodnight kiss to Patrick’s lips.

And while there are still a lot of emotional messes between them, doubts and insecurities and untold stories yet to come up, Patrick sleeps soundly with Pete in his arms.

It’s a warm LA night, the clouds and light pollution obstructing the view of the stars in the sky. Down on earth, Patrick thinks Pete is the brightest star of them all when Pete stands in front of him, hands on his hips, with his precious million-dollar smile beaming at Patrick.

“You look beautiful,” Patrick says in a soft voice as Pete fumbles to open the last button of his Henley shirt. There’s nothing extraordinary about the outfit, it’s just that Pete wears it well, and what suits him even more is the happy grin and the genuine joy and excitement radiating off of him. It’s no wonder people are fascinated by him, want to buy whatever he advertises or have him in front of their camera to capture a little bit of his magic.

“So do you,” Pete says, and for once, Patrick can almost believe him.

Patrick smiles back at him, then takes Pete’s hand. “Let’s go and enjoy ourselves.”

The gallery opening is just cozy enough that Patrick feels comfortable. No large crowds, no one expects anything of him, there’s no Bob in the back of his head demanding that he networks or sucks up to someone. Hayley is waiting for them already, her cherry-red hair and subtle artsy attire fitting perfectly with the guests.

As they enter the gallery and Pete and Hayley look for a good spot for a quick snapshot, Patrick notices a man among the guests who seems to stare at him. Patrick wonders if maybe, they know each other; he seems familiar in a way Patrick can’t quite put his finger on. It’s unlikely, this is not his usual crowd, and when Patrick turns his head again, the man is lost among the other guests.

Patrick is distracted by Pete, now at his side again, taking Patrick’s hand. For a while, Pete walks him through the exhibit, talking animatedly about the artwork and although Patrick barely understands half of what Pete says, it’s fun to just listen to Pete, and see him all excited.

“Oh, and I did book Hayley for a reason,” Pete now says in a low voice, and winks at Patrick. “She’s an amazing photographer, y’know. I hope she can make some contacts, secure an exhibition for herself. I love her work, and it deserves to be displayed.”

Patrick grins, and nods. “I’m not an expert, but I like her photos as well.”

There’s a unique style to her photography that Patrick can’t place into words like Pete could, but it’s pretty nonetheless. 

“She wants to shoot with me again.” Pete sighs dreamily as he looks at the displayed artworks, and leans his head on Patrick’s shoulder. “Maybe, one day, I’ll be on these walls as well. I’ll be _ art _.”

Patrick slings his arm around Pete’s waist. “You’re art to me already.”

Pete laughs his low and weird laugh, then turns his head to meet Patrick’s lips for a sweet kiss. Their little moment is only interrupted when Hayley approaches them again. Pete blows Patrick a kiss as he walks off with her, and Patrick is left with a smile on his lips as he finds the least busy spot, and tries to gather his thoughts. Patrick stares at the artworks on the wall, and wonders if maybe, Pete wants to buy something…?

He’s not left alone for long. Travie checks in on him, introduces one of the fellow artists of the exhibition, and leaves them to be social. Patrick isn’t all that interested in meeting people, but he still manages to make some smalltalk, shake hands with various other guests, and is halfway through thinking of a halfhearted excuse to not be social anymore when one of the other guests introduces himself with a name that rings a bell.

Patrick didn’t immediately recognize him, because as much as he has been in his life, Patrick never actually _ met _ him. And aside from some stray photos in gossip articles on the trash side of the internet, Patrick is used to seeing him stark naked, half in frame, his hands splayed over Pete’s ass as he growls “_yes, babyboy, hold still for daddy”_.

“Pleased to meet you, Mister Stumph. I’m Jeremy Walton,” is what he says right here, right now, with all the underlying confident smugness of a man who’s never had to introduce himself, his name and money being known to all the important people already.

Jeremy is dressed like all old money, in a tailor-made shirt and pants with subtle elegance and a hefty price tag, a watch on his wrist that looks just as unassuming to the untrained eye, yet is probably a custom made-to-order piece of mechanical art worth as much as a decently sized LA studio apartment. He’s a little too overdressed for the artsy crowd, but that doesn’t seem to bother him.

Out of everything that he’s mentally prepared for this evening, meeting Pete’s ex has not been on his mind.

“Never liked your father’s music. Not to my taste. I hope you won’t take that personal,” Jeremy says in a conversational tone that manages to make his words not sound outright rude, even though the cold way he looks at Patrick makes it clear he doesn’t mean them at all.

“I don’t care,” Patrick replies, a little too vicious and clearly not just an answer to the statement Jeremy just made.

Jeremy raises his brows a little, his finger tapping against the empty champagne flute he’s holding. “Where is your husband?” He asks, his smile revealing two rows of bleached teeth. He has a healthy-looking California tan these days, and more hair than Patrick remembers.

“That’s none of your business.” It’s provocation, and Patrick hates himself a little, but it’s so hard to stay calm when this bastard is right in front of him. “Why are you even here? Can’t you leave Pete alone?”

“I _ am _ leaving him alone. This is still a free country, I can go wherever I please,” Jeremy says, brows raised, his voice and expression all fake outrage. “You’re nothing but paranoid and hysterical, always trying to blame someone else. I guess that’s why you and Pete make a good couple.”

Patrick narrows his eyes, the anger at Jeremy’s words making him shake a little. “Don’t talk about Pete like that.”

“I divorced him. Pete needs to finally get over it. And so do you, apparently.” Jeremy scoffs a little, as if this is just a mere bother to him. What angers Patrick the most is that’s probably true – Pete is nothing but an inconvenience to Jeremy. Not even that, no, he’s just a minor annoyance to be swatted away because Jeremy feels no more responsibility for him. It’s all done and over, Pete has been discarded and thrown out of Jeremy’s life, and Jeremy doesn’t waste another thought on him.

A third person interrupts their unfortunate togetherness. It’s a guy holding two flutes of champagne, one of which he hands to Jeremy. “Got you a drink,” he says while sending Patrick a suspicious look.

“Thanks, babydoll,” Jeremy says without looking at him, “the service here is atrocious.”

The guy giggles, and links his arm with Jeremy’s. He looks gorgeous, strands of soft blond hair falling into his cherubic face, his pretty lips in a pretty pout. He also looks barely old enough to be legally drinking champagne. “Who’s that?” He asks, nods towards Patrick as if Patrick wasn’t standing right in front of him.

A scornful grin tugs at the corner of Jeremy’s mouth as he answers: “Oh, no one important.”

Patrick opens his mouth, then closes it again, because realization hits him: Jeremy isn’t worth his time. Someone like Jeremy is never going to listen, he’s never going to change, he is never going to see what he’s done wrong or feel any sense of remorse, because he doesn’t have the capability of having a conscience in the first place.

What matters isn’t trying to take down Jeremy in a fight Patrick can’t win, not right here and not now. What matters right now is making sure he’s not going to hurt Pete again.

Without another word, Patrick just turns away, hands still balled into fists as he tries to push Jeremy out of his mind. Jeremy can rot in hell for all he cares, but that’s not going to change anything. He needs to find Pete first – anxiously, Patrick realizes he hasn’t seen Pete in a while. Patrick hurries through the crowd, but Pete is not among the other guests, he’s not with Hayley or Travie, and finally, after checking the bathrooms, Patrick finds himself in knocking on a door that says _ Staff Only_.

“Who’s there?” It’s Pete’s voice, no doubt. He’s hiding, which makes Patrick’s heart ache.

“Pete, it’s me, Patrick. Can I come in?”

For what seems like an eternity, nothing happens. Just as Patrick is about to panic himself, the door finally opens, revealing a dimly-lit room and a trembling Pete. It all goes so fast, Patrick has barely time to react, and then he has Pete in his arms, clinging to him as if Patrick were to disappear the second he lets go.

Patrick pats Pete’s back, tries to be calming, tries to say something soothing although he suspects none of it is really reaching Pete.

“Jeremy was right. I can never escape from him,” Pete manages to bring out in between two sobs.

“Did he talk to you?” Patrick asks, more than alarmed now.

“No,” Pete answers, much to Patrick’s relief. “But – but he showed up today, and – and – he’s going to ruin my life all again.”

Patrick grits his teeth. “He’s not. I won’t let that happen.”

“He’s going to ruin my life all over again,” Pete repeats, as if he hadn’t heard Patrick’s words. “And I can’t keep fighting him all over again. I just can’t...” Pete trails off, another violent sob overcoming him as he buries his head in Patrick’s shoulder. Patrick helplessly rubs his back, while he tries to keep calm. Pete is crying, he is devastated, it’s an emotional turmoil that Patrick doesn’t feel equipped to handle at all.

“Pete? Do you want me to call someone?” Patrick asks in what he hopes is a soothing voice. “A therapist, maybe? Anyone?”

“I don’t fucking _ have _ a therapist!” Pete stops clinging to him, and takes a step back to send Patrick an angry glare. “I don’t need a therapist. I don’t need more fixing. I’m _ done _ getting fixed. I take my meds like a good boy, and it’s fine!”

Patrick would very much like to argue that, especially given their current situation, but right now might not be the best time to talk about this issue. Apparently, the reason Pete declined couple therapy isn’t because he doesn’t want to invest any emotional labor into their relationship, but a different reason altogether.

“Don’t tell anyone what I said about being medicated.” Pete is still agitated, but there’s a hint of fear now. “You signed the NDA. Don’t try to go and tell everyone I’m just a crazy guy.”

Patrick would feel offended, if he didn’t know about how Pete’s previous partners treated him. “Is that what Jeremy did?” Patrick asks, even though he’s pretty sure what the answer will be.

True to his predictions, Pete scoffs, but nods. “Sean did that, too. Blamed all of our problems on me being “crazy”. And Jeremy loved that argument, he knew exactly how to play that card to make me feel bad. To make me doubt myself. To make me feel paranoid. To just – to just make me feel _ miserable_.”

Pete hides his face behind his hands, and lets out another muffled sob. It’s like an old wound has been torn open, and Patrick, as much as he wants to help, just doesn’t know how to stop the bleeding. He takes Pete into his arms again, and slowly, Pete relaxes into the touch, but doesn’t calm down much.

Behind them, the door opens again. “Hey. It’s me,” Travie says as he enters the room. “Are you okay?”

Patrick shakes his head, to answer for the both of them.

“I’m so sorry, Travie,” Pete stutters, still half in tears. “I’m so sorry that you have all this trouble because of me.”

“Because of you?” Travie furrows his brows. “None of this is your fault.”

“If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have all this trouble. Jeremy was right – he’s awful, but he’s always right. I’m just a bother to _ everyone_.”

With that, Pete bursts into tears again, and he tenses up in Patrick’s arms. Thankfully, the situation is obvious enough that Travie understands; he walks over to them, gently places his hand on Pete’s shoulder. “Pete. Listen to me. You have to breathe, okay?”

As tense as Pete is, Travie manages to get him to listen, soothingly and subtly talks him through a breathing exercise. Afterwards, Pete looks a little calmer, and Patrick has never been more thankful for having Travie as his friend. Travie searches in his pockets, and produces a tissue. “Sorry, it’s got a bit of paint on it,” he says as he hands it to Pete, and Pete manages to smile a little as he takes the tissue.

“The only one who was a bother, the only one who acted like an asshole was your ex-husband. You don’t have to take the blame for his actions.” Travie manages to sound firm without sounding overbearing or condescending. “We can blacklist him for future events, if you want.”

“Blacklist him,” Pete repeats slowly, surprised almost. “_I’m _ usually the one who has to leave. Or gets left behind.”

“Pete. Is your ex stalking you?” Travie asks, and Pete shakes his head.

“It’s the first time I’ve seen or heard from him since our divorce.”

Travie nods at Pete. “Good. But I meant what I said. We don’t stand for this kind of bullshit. You have all my support.”

“You have all of our support,” Patrick repeats softly when Pete turns to him. “There’s no way Jeremy or anyone else will ever hurt you like that again.”

“Thank you guys,” Pete stammers as he half-smiles, half cries into the sleeves of his shirt. “That really means a lot to me.”

“It’s been a weird day. Go home and rest.” Travie shakes his head before Pete can make another apology. “It’s fine, Pete. Take care of yourself.”

Travie looks at Patrick with an unspoken _ take care of him as well_. Patrick sends him a weak smile, and sincerely hopes he can follow that advice.

They make it home without anyone bothering them.

“I don’t want to be alone tonight,” Pete whispers when he follows Patrick to the master bedroom. They don’t really talk, and Pete isn’t searching for body contact or cuddles for comfort, which is fine. Patrick is glad that Pete knows when and what kind of closeness he wants, and demands his space.

To Patrick’s surprise, Pete eventually falls asleep, no doubt thanks to yesterday’s sleepless night and today’s stress. Patrick, usually the one without any trouble to fall asleep pretty much anytime and anywhere, sits next to him, wide awake. He watches Pete’s chest rise and fall, lost in his thoughts. Half-hearted plans and vague ideas are running through Patrick’s head, all motivated by one thought – he can’t just let Jeremy get away like that. It can’t just – this can’t be it. Can it?

Patrick lets out a deep sigh, and waits for the new day to start.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!~


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Welcome back, this week for some feels, a bit of fluff, and a very important conversation...
> 
> Thanks to Snitches who, as usual, is an awesome beta reader!

“There has to be something we can do.”

Patrick is sitting at his living room table in front of several legal documents he mostly disregards. Opposite him sits Andy, growing more and more impatient because Patrick is talking a lot, and none of it is about said legal documents.

“For the last time,” Andy says as he impatiently taps his engraved Montblanc pen against the wooden table, “there’s nothing to be done.”

“We can’t get a restraining order?”

Andy sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. The word FUCK spelled over his fingers flashes Patrick, and Patrick thinks that might not be a coincidence. “On what ground? Him being, and I quote you, _ a total asshole_?”

“You’re the lawyer, you tell me,” Patrick says stubbornly.

“Well then, I can tell you that even if we file for a restraining order, it probably wouldn’t get enforced anyway. You say Jeremy doesn’t contact Pete directly or isn’t stalking him, so there is no communication to be cut off, and if he meets you in a public space, what are you going to do? Call the police on him, and make a _ Los Angeles vs Stumph _ as a precedent for police officers not having to enforce a restraining order?”

This is all way more frustrating than Patrick imagined it to be. He knows Jeremy hurt Pete, he gets to see the damage Jeremy’s words and actions caused him, it’s _ real _. There have to be some consequences, right? “How about suing for emotional damage?”

“You won’t get a cent.”

Patrick bites his lip, and pushes up his glasses. “It’s not really about the money -”

Before he can finish, Andy interrupts him. “Have you thought about what happens if you sue? Your husband would need to get back into court, and have his entire marriage, his life be exposed in court all over again, It would be a lengthy legal battle with little chance of success, but a lot of stress to be endured by him. Have you asked your husband if he wants any of that?”

No, Patrick hasn’t thought of that, much less asked Pete. But after everything he’s learned, everything Pete has said, the answer isn’t hard to imagine. “I don’t think Pete would want that,” Patrick admits with a sigh.

“Thought so.” Andy points his pen towards the paperwork in front of them. “Can we talk about the postnup now?”

Patrick grits his teeth, but nods. He trusts Andy’s legal advice, no matter how unhappy he is that there’s no easy legal way to get back at Jeremy, that he can’t just pay for the damage to get undone. After the humiliating encounter at the art gallery, Patrick has hoped that what he couldn’t deliver in witty comebacks or grand speeches, he could make up for with legal action.

“You sure you want to give him the house?” Andy asks, redirecting Patrick’s attention to what they’re really here for – discussing the postnup.

“Absolutely,” Patrick confirms without hesitation, “Pete is getting the house.”

“Are you _ really _ sure?” Andy, always the lawyer, doesn’t seem to be without any reservations. “Patrick, you’re my client, so I’ll try to be honest. You have a good prenup to prevent your husband from screwing you out of your money. And you married said husband just a few months ago, mind you, not even knowing his real age. I just want to be sure you won’t regret being so generous. Because that will be very hard to fight once the postnup is done.”

Patrick furrows his brows at Andy’s wary tone, but takes a deep breath, and puts his outrage aside; from Andy’s perspective, this must all seem very weird indeed. A lot has changed in the months they’ve been married, and Andy is only just learning that. There’s no point in yelling at him.

“Pete isn’t a bad guy. Trust me, he hasn’t maliciously manipulated me into anything here. He gets the house. This is his home, and I won’t take that away from him. And if we divorce...” Patrick sighs to himself, looks down at his hand and the golden wedding band on it. “If we divorce, I think it’s going to be amicable. At least that’s what I want, and I suppose so does Pete.”

Andy, probably more cynical after all his experience, only raises his brows. He probably has a thought or two on Hollywood and amicable divorces, but he’s said his part. Andy will bother with the divorce if it actually happens. Patrick hopes it won’t, but he knows that hoping won’t get him far.

Patrick shakes his head, and tries not to worry. They’re not talking about a divorce, this is about the postnup, nothing else. Unless…

“Hey, Andy. Can we get Pete’s dog back?”

“Pete’s _ dog_?” Andy repeats, somewhat surprised. “Where did that come from? And since when does he have a dog? Isn’t that all arranged in your prenup already?”

Patrick shakes his head again. “It happened in Pete’s last marriage. He lost the dog in the divorce.”

It seems like this time, Andy’s interest is piqued. “Hmm. That is weird. Was he the prime caretaker of the dog?”

Patrick nods. “I’m sure he was. But the paperwork is all in Jeremy’s name...”

“Still, that’s a very outdated way to rule. Just this year, they passed a new law about pets...” Andy trails off, his hand holding his pen tapping against the table as he thinks. “I think we need to talk to Pete.”

“Can we really win this?” A very nervous Pete sits with them at the table now, arms crossed in front of his chest.

Calm and confident, Andy nods. “I’m baffled you lost in the first place. I already told your husband, it’s a very outdated ruling.”

Pete shrugs, brows furrowed as he sends Andy a cautious look. “The judge didn’t seem to like that gay men could get married in the first place. And I didn’t look great in court with being accused of being a gold digger who only wanted my rich white husband’s money. And then I demanded a dog of all things, which the judge seemed to think of as even more of a waste of time. He didn’t like me, he didn’t care for dogs, and he wanted me out of his court. In the end, I ran out of money to fight.”

Andy listens attentively, nods once in a while, and smiles sympathetically when Pete is done, like he usually does when he knows he’s about to make some billable hours.

“Okay, let’s see. Can you prove you were the main caretaker?”

Pete hesitates, then answers: “Well… I have a lot of photos and videos, most of it also on my social media.”

“That’s what I thought.” Andy’s smile widens, like it always does when he knows he has a good case. “That’s a great start. Anything else?”

“I was also the one who took Bowie to all the vet appointments. All that paperwork at the clinic is signed by me.” Pete hesitates again, a pained expression on his face now. He takes a deep breath, and adds: “And I think – I can’t personally prove it, but… I don’t think Jeremy is treating Bowie very well. He hated my dog, and I have no doubt that Jeremy doesn’t care one bit about my dog’s well-being. I bet he’d make sure Bowie is miserable, if just out of spite.”

That gets Andy to stop smiling. He’s been interested in the case already, sure, but the potential animal abuse hits Andy, straightedge militant vegan, on a more personal level.

“Good. Very good.” Andy narrows his eyes as he writes something down, then looks at Pete again. “We handled a case like that in our law firm just recently. If needed, I know an excellent animal behaviorist, and with all the material you already have, I’m sure we could hire someone to edit a video presentation, just like in the San Diego case. Plus, any proof of animal abuse we could gather if we demand to have the dog inspected by a vet is going to help us out tremendously.”

“How long will it take? And can we really win? I don’t know if… If I can handle another long legal battle with Jeremy if I’m just going to lose everything all over again.” Pete sounds exhausted, but also desperate, no doubt because he wants to get his dog back at all costs. Patrick’s heart aches when he thinks of all the pain Pete has been put through; he reaches out to gently put his hand on Pete’s, who smiles at the gesture, and laces their fingers together.

“We have the new law, you have a good case and good evidence, you won’t run out of money this time...” Andy spares a quick glance to Patrick, who nods to confirm that. “I don’t think your ex-husband’s lawyers will let it even get to trial – he would lose, no doubt.”

“I trust Andy on this,” Patrick adds, and reassuringly squeezes Pete’s hand. “And if anything happens, I’ll be at your side. So will your friends. You won’t have to fight this alone.”

Pete takes a deep breath, and squeezes Patrick’s hand, too. “Then let’s get my dog back.”

The next days are hectic. Today, after a visit to Andy’s office, Pete has retreated to the gym and then to see Vicky. Dragging up the whole dog affair has been difficult on him, Patrick can see that. He’s been quiet, mostly because of the stress, and as much as it hurts, Patrick thinks all he can do give Pete all the emotional support he can offer. They talk, eat together if their schedules match up, and Pete spends most nights at the master bedroom. Pete is glad for any distraction, so Patrick plays him the song for the show he’s working on, acts out some of his dialog for Pete (who makes for a very good audience) and if Pete needs a hug and silence, that’s fine as well. Patrick doesn’t want to fall back into their old bad habits of not talking and glossing over every issue, but this feels different. Pete isn’t pretending to be all happy, and doesn’t go on his knees just to hide his emotions and make Patrick feel better. It feels like progress, slow, but steady.

Right now though, Patrick could use a friend as well, which is why he is sitting in Joe’s kitchen with a mug of tea and home-made cookies. Joe loves baking, even though these days, there’s no more weed in his baked goods.

It’s been a while since he’s talked to Joe outside of their work context and not while they’re in a car, and Patrick finds himself regretting that a lot. Joe’s a great guy, and even with the issue of work between them, they always got along. Patrick has been so busy with almost screwing up his marriage, he’s missed out on Joe’s life even though they see each other so much.

Inevitably, the topic of Pete’s dog comes up, too.

“Pete told me. What a mess!” Joe clicks his tongue in disapproval. “I really hope you get his dog back.”

“So do I,” Patrick says, nervous despite all of Andy’s reassurance. “I hope it won’t be too much stress for him.”

Joe smiles sympathetically, hands Patrick another cookie. “How are you holding up?”

“Me?” Patrick pauses to think. All this a lot for Pete, no question, but if Patrick is being honest, he’s anxious as well. “I’m mostly worried if I can offer all the help and support that Pete needs. I can help him _ pay _ for the whole ordeal, sure, but I’m still worried... That I can’t be the partner Pete needs.”

With a laugh, Joe leans forward to give Patrick a jovial pat on the shoulder. “Listen to you, dude! I almost don’t recognize you.”

Patrick feels his face heating up. “I mean… I haven’t been great at relationships, particularly this one. But I don’t want to mess this up. I really, really like Pete, and I – I want to make this work.”

Joe nods, and pats Patrick’s shoulder again. “Took you a while to get here.”

“Let’s hope it didn’t take too long.” Patrick sighs. “I was so convinced that if this marriage doesn’t work, it’s going to be anybody’s fault but mine. And now I’m afraid that in the end, I’ll have no one to blame but myself.”

“Told you the sudden marriage was a bad idea for all the wrong reasons.” Even though Joe sends him a stern look, he also hands Patrick another much-needed and very appreciated delicious cookie. “Be there for him, listen to him, and keep trying your best, Patrick.”

There’s noise from the hallway, and then a very excited Rose runs into the kitchen, her hands, face, and clothes covered in paint.

“Rose! We need to wash our hands first!” Marie enters the kitchen, but Joe has already narrowly stopped Rose from smearing paint all over the white wall.

“You heard mommy. We need to wash our hands first,” Joe repeats as he takes Rose into his arms, not caring that she gets some paint on his clothes as well. “C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.”

Joe heads for the bathroom, while Marie sighs and sits down opposite to Patrick. “She’s obsessed with finger paint these days,” she explains as she takes one of the cookies. “It’s so adorable, but so messy. I’m pretty sure half our clothes have edible organic paint stains now. Did you see what she did to the couch? I love her so much, but the interior designer in me is crying sometimes.”

“Sorry for that. But it is very cute,” Patrick confirms with a smile, He’s seen the pictures on the fridge, handprints and smears of colors, most of it pretty abstract, but a clear sign little Rose had fun with the colorful paint. They also have two cute little pictures on the living room wall, the handprints of Marie, Joe, and Rose, dated from shortly after Rose’s birth and her first birthday.

(“We will add one each year. To show how she’s growing up,” Joe had explained with pride.)

After a nice chat with Marie, some more cookies, and saying goodbye to Joe, Patrick finds himself in a good mood. While Pete is still a bit withdrawn when he gets back home as well, they have dinner together, and Pete spends the night in the master bedroom. He doesn’t sleep, Patrick knows the signs of Pete’s insomnia by now, but he stays until Patrick is asleep, fiddling on his phone, one hand absent-mindedly carding through Patrick’s hair. It’s sweet of him, and Patrick thinks he could very much get used to the warm feeling it gives him.

Next day when Patrick gets out of the studio, he finds a text from Pete informing him he’s volunteered to babysit once more. Patrick comes home to find a stressed Joe, and a happy husband with a toddler in his arms.

“Hey, babe. You want to hang out with us?” Pete greets him, nodding towards little Rose.

“Your husband is a lifesaver,” Joe remarks as he pats Pete’s shoulder, then gives Rose a little kiss on the forehead.

“Sure.” Patrick hesitates as a sudden idea strikes him. “Hey, Rose. I heard you like paint?”

Rose nods with big eyes and an excited grin.

“You sure?” Joe asks as he eyes his daughter. “It’s nice of you, but be aware that it's going to be a total mess.”

Before Patrick can answer that, Pete already says: “That’s fine. We can deal with that. It’s going to be fun!”

Joe rolls his eyes at them and remarks that they still have the enthusiasm now, but not after the third ruined shirt and the second bright-red fingerprint on Marie’s carefully selected wallpaper. Still, he gets them another change of clothes for Rose, as well as all her paint stuff, while Pete and Patrick change into clothes that can get dirty without consequences.

Pete listens dutifully to Joe’s instructions (“the finger paint is organic, and edible. She’ll be fine!”) while Patrick tries his best to set up a space that’s safe for an excited toddler (“cover every inch in old newspaper, and don’t let her roam free. She will ruin your couch the moment you take your eyes off her, and your wife will be mad”).

Then, Joe says goodbye, and while Rose is a bit fussy at first when her dad leaves, it’s soon forgotten when Pete can redirect her attention to the colorful fingerpaint and the blank paper waiting to be drawn on.

“I thought this would be fun,” Patrick explains his intentions to Pete while he reaches for the fingerpaint. “I’m not very good at art, but… I thought we could create something together.”

Pete looks at him with his pretty amber eyes, a gentle smile tugging at his lips. “Actually, that’s a cute idea,” he says softly. “And it’s not about being good at art. Art is subjective, anyway. It’s the journey that counts, and the emotions we put into it.”

That makes sense, even to Patrick, whose creative outlet lies in very different mediums. He smiles encouragingly at Pete, who surely has a lot more thoughts on art and seems like he wants to share them, but they’re interrupted by Rose.

“Pete! _ Paint!_” She demands now, splaying her little fingers over the paper.

“Sure, sweetie!” Pete helps her out, then turns to Patrick and whispers: “Did you hear that? She can pronounce the P now, she can say my name! It’s the cutest!”

Just as predicted, it gets messy very soon. Rose gets a lot of paint on the paper, but even more of it somehow ends up smeared all over her hands, arms, face, and wherever else it’s not supposed to be. Still a bit shy and not as used to Patrick as she is to Pete, she sits next to Pete, who has to rein her in and make sure she doesn’t try to eat all the paint, or get up to paint the walls and furniture.

It’s still cozy, in a way. Homely, or what Patrick imagines homely to be. Rose happily fills the paper with color, and Patrick tries his best to support her and Pete’s attempts at art. Most of it is pretty random and messy, but this is just for fun, like Pete said, and Patrick actually relaxes as colorful paint is spread all over the white sheets of paper.

They end up with half a dozen pictures done in collaboration, and one that Patrick asks Pete to do alone with him; it’s their handprints, in various colors all blending together after an afternoon of fingerpainting with an excited toddler, next to each other. Pete recognizes where Patrick got the idea from, and happily agrees. The way he smiles brightly as he puts his handprint next to Patrick makes Patrick’s heart skip a beat with anxious joy.

Later that evening, after Joe and Marie picked up their daughter and they’ve cleaned up a bit, Patrick finds himself in bed with Pete once more. It’s so nice to have this shared intimacy, no matter how mundane.

“We can buy you some real artwork, too,” Patrick says as Pete undresses himself, “I didn’t know if you wanted to buy something from Travie’s exhibit… And if not, we can find something else. I had fun going to the gallery with you.”

“I’d love that, babe.” Pete turns to Patrick, and winks at him with a grin. “But hey. We did some real art today as well.”

With that, Pete gets rid of his pants. He’s only in boxers now, which isn’t too unusual for him, but there’s something in the curve of his smile, something in the way he looks at Patrick. The mood shifts from a casual chat to sexual tension as Pete walks over to the bed, sits down between Patrick’s legs. He sends Patrick a playful smile, before he leans down for a kiss. It’s sweet and strangely reassuring to Patrick who feels a little nervous like he always does these days whenever they get intimate. Whatever false confidence he’s had when he married Pete to be his pretty trophy husband is gone; which is good, sure, but also kind of scary. He has to learn to trust Pete all over again on the basis of a real relationship, not on taking Pete for granted because of money and questionable one night stands. Despite them having been together for a while now, despite all the dirty things they did in bed, this is more difficult than Patrick had imagined.

Pete tugs at the waistband of Patrick’s pants, sends him a questioning look. Patrick nods, and a moment later, Pete has shoved down his pants and both their underwear, and has slid a hand under Patrick’s shirt. Patrick hesitates for the tiniest moment, then decides he’s being ridiculous – too late now to hide anything. At least Pete doesn’t seem to think that anything needs to be hidden, given how eager he is to take off Patrick’s shirt.

When Pete leans in again, Patrick can feel Pete’s dick brushing against his own growing erection. Patrick can’t help but moan a little. He reaches out to caress Pete’s face, and Pete smirks, leans into the touch at first, then turns his head so he can lick a broad stripe over Patrick’s palm. It’s obvious what he wants, and Patrick is more than happy to give it to him; he slides his hands down to wrap it around their dicks, both hard under his touch, smiling to himself when Pete is the one to moan now.

Patrick starts to stroke their dicks, and Pete arches into the touch, moaning again. Patrick spreads his legs a little wider to grant him better access, and Pete happily presses closer, rocks his hips in sync with Patrick’s.

And Pete feels amazing, hard and heavy in Patrick’s hand and against his dick, and he looks stunning with his lips parted, a blush spreading over his face, his amber eyes peeking at Patrick through long black lashes. He’s moaning, making the sweetest sounds Patrick has ever heard, and when Pete throws back his head, lets out that sweet, breathy little “oh” as he comes, Patrick can’t help but come with him.

They’re naked and sweaty, which doesn’t bother either of them. Pete cuddles up to Patrick, and for a while, they both enjoy the warmth of the afterglow.

Patrick likes this. He really, really likes this. He’s too scared to allow himself to really think of love yet, after everything that happened, and yet… He knows he’s about to lose, no, has already lost most of his heart to Pete, which could be wonderful. It’s just that the thought that he could lose _ this _ , that he could lose _ Pete _, scares him to the very core. It’s not the same dismissive and arrogant assumption that their fake marriage is doomed to end for whatever superficial reasons Patrick imagined there to be. It’s visceral, primal fear, deep down in his guts, making his heart ache as he subconsciously pulls Pete a little closer, like he might slip away otherwise.

Pete doesn’t slip away, he just sighs happily. Patrick tries to push away his fears for now and focus on the nice moment they’re having. “I’m so happy to be with you,” Patrick whispers as he gently traces over Pete’s smooth skin.

“Hm? What did you say, babe?” Pete mumbles sleepily, a seemingly innocuous little question, a small and ordinary remark, nothing unreasonable or odd. Something that has gone over Patrick’s head at first, but that has been on his mind for a while. Something that sparks a question on Patrick’s part that he wants to ask, but doesn’t know when, doesn’t know how to. He bites it back once more, because they’re sated and comfortable, cuddling and enjoying the end of a nice day, and Patrick doesn’t have the strength to bring it up right now.

“I’m so happy to be with you,” Patrick repeats instead, a little louder this time, and it gets him a cute little chuckle from Pete. It would warm Patrick’s heart and almost make him forget, were it not for that tiny bit of poisonous doubt that spoils the mood, and sends Patrick into a night of tossing and turning and vague bad dreams.

It’s the next day when the question inevitably comes up again. Pete has found a pretty frame for their handprints, now displayed in their living room, and right now he’s pinning one of Rose’s pictures to the fridge as Patrick scrolls through his phone.

“Hey, Pete. Travie asks if we want to come visit the gallery again sometime,” Patrick says as he goes through his messages.

Pete turns to him with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, babe, what was that?”

Patrick opens his mouth to repeat what he just said, then closes it again. He looks up from his phone, and in the awkward silence, Pete must’ve noticed a shift in the mood, because he’s lost his casual attitude, and he’s not smiling anymore.

“Pete? I’ve been noticing, you… You don’t always hear me.”

For a while, Pete says nothing, just stares at Patrick with narrowed eyes. “I _ hear _ you,” Pete eventually says, almost defiantly, “I just don’t always _ understand _ you.”

It’s Patrick’s turn to struggle for words as he tries to make sense of what Pete just said. “So, you do have trouble hearing? But what do you mean? Am I – do I not speak loud enough? Not clear enough?” Patrick is rambling and he knows it, trying to ask everything at once without knowing if it’s appropriate or if Pete even wants to answer, but he’s tired of being a coward and shying away from the conversation. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve paid more attention so you can hear –“ Pete narrows his eyes, and Patrick hurries to correct himself: “So you can _ understand _ me better!”

“Because hearing people don’t understand – ironic, right?” Pete lets out a long sigh. He scoffs, crosses his arms over his chest. “I don’t want to explain. I don’t want to be treated differently. I don’t want people to start yelling at me or speak slowly or act like I’m stupid rather than having a mild hearing loss. I don’t want the pity and I don’t want the labels and I don’t – I just _ don’t_.”

It doesn’t look like Pete’s overly eager to talk about this; if anything, Pete looks resigned, like he knew this conversation would come up, but had hoped to avoid it for just a little longer.

Patrick bites his lips, his mind racing. As reluctant as Pete is to talk about it, now that Patrick knows for sure that Pete has indeed trouble with his hearing, so much makes sense in hindsight.

Pete’s polite requests to repeat his words. Pete not understanding him. Pete just smiling instead of answering or simply disregarding what someone says not because he’s rude or hasn’t listened, but because he simply didn’t catch it. Pete leaning in closer when someone talks. Every restaurant they’ve been to, Pete has suggested, knowing there wouldn’t be any loud music or chattering. The movies they watched, all of them old classics, nostalgia-driven, and Pete probably knows the words by heart and doesn’t need to ask for the captions. And all the little moments that Patrick probably didn’t even notice…

“Is there anything I can do? Do I need to speak louder? Or clearer? I can do that.”

Pete slowly shakes his head. “Don’t yell at me. _ Louder _isn’t always better. And when I ask, just… Don’t just say “nevermind” or something like that. And… Just don’t treat me any differently.”

Patrick nods; he usually tries to repeat himself (although right now, he’s not sure he always did that right so that Pete could actually understand) ever since that tiny suspicion has been at the back of his mind that maybe, just maybe, no matter how young and healthy Pete looks, no matter the smiles and giggles, there might be something off.

“Also, you signed the NDA,” Pete adds stubbornly. “You can’t tell anyone about this.”

“I won’t. I’d never,” Patrick reassures him, and wonders – Pete hasn’t shared much, and given the NDA about his medical records he’s not willing to go public about any of this. “Does anyone else know?”

“My family. My agent. My doctors. Vicky. Few people, really.” Pete sighs, rakes a hand through his bleached hair. “Joe might have his suspicions, but… I’m pretty good at hiding it.”

“Yeah… It took me a while to notice.” Patrick’s attempt at a smile feels more like a painful grimace. “And then I wasn’t really sure… How to bring it up.”

“It’s not too bad. I’m not deaf. And not Deaf with a capital d either.” Pete makes air quotes when he says deaf, although Patrick isn’t really sure about the distinctions in the first place. “I can get by. It’s just my right ear, it’s just a mild hearing loss, and I know – I know how to cope. How to make up for it. How to make sure it’s not a bother.”

_ A bother _ – that sounds familiar. Patrick is sure that Pete using these devaluing words is something that his latest wonderfully awful ex-husband supported, if not initiated.

Before Patrick can say anything, Pete holds up his hand to stop him. “You can ask questions, I’m… I might be okay with that. Just – not right now. Give me some time first, please.”

All Patrick can do is nod and accept that. But now that he’s had the courage to ask, now that Pete trusts him enough to reveal such a big thing about himself, Patrick feels a lot better. Anxious, sure, and with a bit of a guilty conscience, but better. Like they’ve made another big step in their relationship, away from times when Patrick only vaguely and half-heartedly at best tried to address any issues, all of which Pete would deny or smile away.

While Pete doesn’t want to talk right now, he does however accept a hug from Patrick. It’s a simple hug, but that Pete can accept comfort in the form of physical intimacy from him is still a million times better than Pete trying to gloss over everything with sex. Patrick smiles to himself, rests his head on Pete’s shoulder.

“So… What was it you said earlier?” Pete asks, with a little bit of reluctance in his voice. 

Patrick clears his throat, and repeats: “Travie asked if we want to visit the gallery again before the exhibit is over.”

“Hm… I think that would be fun, actually.” 

“I’ll let him know,” Patrick says, and he feels how Pete nods, then sighs.

“That’s the worst, you know? Being cut out of conversations.” There’s a bitterness in Pete’s voice that makes Patrick’s heart ache. “People talk too fast or it’s too loud around us or I stand too far away from them, and they don’t want to repeat themselves for the third time, or I grow tired of having to ask them to repeat themselves in the first place… It’s like I’m invisible. A spectator to a play I don’t understand, and can’t take part in. It’s so isolating sometimes.”

“I’m sorry. That must be awful.” Patrick bites his lip, then adds: “I don’t want to make you feel that way, Pete. Ever. If I’m being too quiet or if I do something wrong… Please tell me. I don’t really know how to deal with this, but I want to learn.”

Pete chuckles, and pulls him closer. Patrick takes that as a yes, and also, as an invitation to a part of Pete’s life that’s delicate and vulnerable; definitely not something he would reveal to anyone. It is a big sign of trust, but also, a big responsibility - Patrick can’t half-ass this, and he absolutely can’t screw this up. 

Their sweet little moment is interrupted when Patrick’s phone rings; Patrick groans in annoyance, and considers to simply ignore it, but after a glance at the screen, Pete nudges him, and says: “It’s Andy. You should pick up...”

Patrick sighs, but he does pick up.

“Patrick. Is your husband around?” Andy asks without bothering with any formalities or giving Patrick the chance to say so much as a hello. “If so, you should put me on speaker. I have some important news...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, everyone! What could those good news be?? Well, I am sure you can guess, can you? :)
> 
> Please note that I myself am able-bodied, and all I know about the deaf culture and being hard of hearing comes from various research. I also had to research the English terms and vocabulary, and I hope I used them right. If not, please feel free to correct me.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, welcome back!
> 
> Snitches, as always, is the best beta reader and I thank her very much for all of her advice!
> 
> Mitski, as always, provides the lyrics, this time from her song "I Will".

Andy is sitting at their dining table, trying his best to smile sympathetically.

“You’re getting the dog back,” Andy says in the same false lighthearted voice he always uses when bad news follow a supposedly positive statement. “If you agree to a clean break.”

Pete lets out something that’s between a relieved sigh and a sniffle, and hides his face behind his hands.

“Clean break?” Patrick asks as he pats Pete’s back in what he hopes is a reassuring gesture. “They’re already divorced!”

“A divorce doesn’t end all financial ties and claims. A Clean Break order however would remove all monetary ties between Pete and his ex-husband. No maintenance, dividing assets or savings... He can’t come for Pete’s money, and what I guess is way more important to Mr Walton, Pete can’t ever claim any money from him.”

That doesn’t sound fair. “That doesn’t sound fair,” Patrick therefore blurts out, “Jeremy is an asshole, and he just… Gets away like that?”

“I don’t want his money. Fuck Jeremy and his money,” Pete hisses as he looks up now, anger burning in his eyes.

“But...”

“No,” Pete says, loud and firm. “I know you mean well, Patrick, but it’s my decision. I don’t want Jeremy’s money. I don’t _ need _ his stupid fucking money, he can keep it. He can choke on it. I want Jeremy out of my life forever, and I want to get my dog back.”

“It’s not the greatest deal,” Andy admits as he taps his pen against the table, thoughtfully looking at Pete. “You’d win if we get this to court. But it could take weeks. Months, perhaps. It would cost you a lot more money and cause a lot more stress. There are no kids involved, and if you don’t plan on suing you ex for money anyway… It makes sense to sever ties. Talk it through with your own lawyer, and let me know if you accept the deal.”

Pete nods, and Patrick already knows what the answer will be.

That’s why a week later, Patrick is currently on what feels like his longest car ride through LA’s traffic ever.

He’s sitting at the back of the car with Pete, while Joe is driving. The atmosphere is tense, with neither of them talking. Even the radio is silent. They’re on the way to Jeremy’s law firm, to pick up Pete’s dog.

Before that, they went to buy some dog essentials, just the bare minimum – Pete is still scared that it might be for nothing, and he hasn’t dared to spend more than half an hour to hastily grab only the most important stuff, and get out of the pet store again.

Patrick has never seen Pete so nervous. Not on their wedding day, not even when they ran into Jeremy. Pete looks anxious, excited and scared all at the same time, and like he’s about a minute away from either panicking or breaking into nervous laughter.

Patrick reaches for Pete’s hand, and Pete clings to it like it’s his last lifeline. “You have to breathe,” Patrick says, with less of the calm authority that Travie has, but thankfully, Pete doesn’t take it as condescending or stupid. He takes a few deep breaths, then lets out a heavy sigh.

“Please, let’s not talk,” Pete says before Patrick can say anything, “I cannot – No. I’ll accept this is real when I actually get to hold my Bowie.”

“You’ll get your dog back, I’m sure.” Joe sends him a sympathetic look through the rearview mirror, although Pete doesn’t seem to notice. Whether he hasn’t heard or if he’s too caught up in his own worries, Patrick doesn’t know.

With Pete being so nervous, Patrick can’t help but have his own troubled thoughts. He wonders what happens if they meet Jeremy in there, how and if Pete can handle that given the unusual stress of the situation. Patrick has promised himself that if they were to meet the dreaded ex again, he’ll stand up to Jeremy, he’ll say something smart, not like last time.

Patrick is torn out of his petty schemes when Joe announces they’ve arrived.

“Pete, do you want me to come in?” Joe offers as they get out of the car.

Pete hesitates, then shakes his head. “Thanks. Just be there for me when I get out again.”

_ With or without my dog _ is the implication. Patrick swallows, then straightens his back, trying to look confident. Pete is worrying enough for the both of them.

Andy is waiting for them already, feet tapping on the ground as he gives them a short nod. “Time to get your dog,” he says to Pete, who manages to form something vaguely resembling a pained smile before he takes Patrick’s hand again. Patrick squeezes it in what he hopes is a reassuring gesture, before they walk inside.

Pete is not in the same celebratory mood as Andy. He’s still clinging to Patrick’s hand, so much it’s close to painful, he doesn’t look at anyone, and he doesn’t talk as he walks half a step behind Patrick, hesitant and unsure.

Patrick hopes he comes off at least a little bit confident despite the raging tempest in his own heart. He shares Pete’s worries, although he tries not to think about what happens if – no. They’re getting the dog back, Andy said so. _ They’re getting the dog back_.

The next few minutes go by in a blur, Patrick barely notices the receptionist talking and he doesn’t register what Andy is saying or how long or where they’re walking to, his consciousness snaps back into place only once they’ve entered one of the offices and Patrick realizes that’s it. They’re here. There’s a dog crate and two men and there’s Andy using his serious lawyer voice.

When Patrick looks up to see who’s standing in the office with them, he doesn’t know whether to laugh or to sigh.

Jeremy isn’t here. Of course he isn’t. Perhaps it’s clever calculation, perhaps it’s cowardice, perhaps he doesn’t want to acknowledge he has lost. Maybe Jeremy doesn’t care at all, and this is just a minor nuisance, a few unnecessary billable hours, worth nothing more than a furrowed brow and perhaps an eye roll.

Next to him, Pete sniffles a little, and Patrick subtly shakes his head, and reminds himself what matters. _ Jeremy _ isn’t what matters. This isn’t a movie script and Patrick isn’t lending his voice to a great hero neatly defeating the villain in the third act. Pete doesn’t need him to be that, Pete needs him to be a caring husband who cares about Pete’s dog and his hobbies and the parts of his life that aren’t Jeremy or Patrick’s grand fantasies of one perfect scene that makes up for everything that has happened so far.

What matters is that Pete is signing something, his right hand shaking so much it almost smudges his signature, his left still clutching Patrick’s. Someone is talking, some boring legal stuff that Patrick barely registers; there’s a small whimper coming from the dog crate, the sound of paws scratching at the walls, and Pete, silent and wide-eyed as he stares at the crate, looks like his knees might give in any second now.

It takes both forever and far less time than anticipated. For all the weeks and weeks of stress building up, the time they spend in the office seems almost comically short. They’re standing in the brightly-lit elevator again, soft music playing in the background, Pete and Andy struggling to carry the crate together – it’s utterly surreal. Patrick isn’t sure whether they spend five or fifty minutes at the law firm, he just knows that now it’s done and over with, there’s a deep, fundamental shift in their lives in the shape of a dog and Pete’s silent tears of relief.

When they reach the car, Joe is waiting outside already, arms crossed over his chest, sending Pete a big smile. Pete doesn’t smile back, he hasn’t even said a word ever since they picked up the dog crate. He looks like he’s sleepwalking, like he hasn’t fully realized what exactly just happened.

Andy is tactful enough to excuse himself, promising to check in at a less inconvenient time, and Patrick thinks he replies with words that vaguely make sense. With the help of Joe, Pete carefully, very carefully puts down the pet carrier into the car trunk. At second glance, the crate looks a little bit too small for a grown Husky, and Patrick feels a new, special kind of hate for Pete’s ex.

“Hey boy. It’s me,” Pete says in a thin voice as he sits next to the crate, opens the door. From inside, there’s another small whimper to be heard; while Bowie doesn’t dare to get out of the crate, he does stick out his snout to sniff at Pete’s trembling hand, lets Pete gently pet him, and the moment Pete actually gets to touch his dog seems to be the moment that it fully settles in what had just happened.

Pete cries, not just a few stray tears, but _ hard_. It’s not in the same desperate, panicked way as last time either; rather, it feels like the relief of tension and stress that have built up for a long time. While Pete keeps petting his dog with one hand, he grabs Patrick’s shirt with the other, pulls him closer until Patrick gets the message, and hugs him. Pete cries into Patrick’s shirt while Patrick gently pats his back, mumbles something that hopefully sounds soothing.

When Pete is done crying, he looks wrecked, but happy. He smiles when Joe, helpful as always, hands him a tissue, and his smile only widens when he leans down to peek into the pet crate to softly whisper: “Don’t worry, Bowie – we’re taking you _ home_.”

Well, technically, their first stop is the vet. Pete has arranged an emergency appointment, and even asked Patrick to accompany him inside. “I can’t do this alone, I need someone to hold my hand and help me keep it together,” Pete had argued, and Patrick can’t help but feel a little proud that Pete not only wants him to come, but also trusts him so much with the much-needed emotional support.

The vet employee at the desk greets them with the usual customer service smile, while somewhat critically eyeing the scared Husky in the too-small pet crate. The two men looking like varying degrees of emotional messes probably don’t help to paint a good picture. Pete nervously rakes a hand through his hair as she types something, then looks up again.

“You say you have an appointment, Mister -?”

“Uhm, just Wentz these days,” Pete cuts in, and she nods, takes a moment to type something, then turns her attention back to Pete. “And my Bowie is back in my care now.”

“I see,” she says, now with less judgment and more warmth in her voice as she seems to realize. “We haven’t seen Bowie all year. I’m glad he’s with you again.”

A proud grin lights up Pete’s face. “So am I.”

They’re waiting at the pristine white office for the vet. Patrick watches as Pete gently tries to get Bowie to leave the crate. It takes a while, as well as some soothing words and the promise of a treat, until the dog feels secure enough to come a little closer, and eventually venture out of the crate and into Pete’s open arms.

It’s only now that Patrick really gets to _ see _ Bowie. So far, all he’s seen of the dog are pictures on the internet or Pete’s phone, or a flash of white fur as they were hurrying to carry the dog out of the lawyer’s office.

The dog that Pete is currently cradling in his arms is huge, a fully grown white Husky who has little in common with the dog Patrick has seen on Pete’s pictures. Sure, he’s still a big dog, but even to Patrick’s untrained eye, he looks rather malnourished, the fur not properly cared for, and the way Bowie keeps whimpering and crying is in stark contrast to the energetic, happy Husky pup he used to be. Pure anger floods Patrick as he thinks of what must’ve happened to the dog, and that Pete was right – Jeremy made sure to neglect the hated dog, just because he could. He doesn’t want to imagine what would’ve happened if Bowie had stayed there for longer.

“Who’s a good boy?” Pete says in a soft voice as he buries his nose in Bowie’s frankly not too clean looking fur, “who’s the best boy of them all? Is it you, Bowie? Oh, yes, I think it’s you!”

Despite his fear, Bowie recognizes Pete as a person he can trust. Pete hugs him, pets him, croons at him, and Bowie, while scared and nervous, still seems to somewhat enjoy all the sudden attention he’s getting. At least, as long as it comes from Pete. Bowie is very wary of Patrick, who, encouraged by Pete, slowly tries to approach him with as much care as possible; turns out the Husky doesn’t like to be touched by him, and much less likes it when Patrick gets too close to Pete. It takes a lot of encouraging words from Pete as well as some treats until Bowie can so much as stand Patrick’s presence closer than three feet to him and Pete.

“Give him some time,” Pete says apologetically, and then the vet interrupts their bonding process.

Luckily, it turns out Bowie is in better shape than Patrick had dared to hope; while the Husky is underweight and they definitely have to come for a few more checkups, there’s no dire emergency, no broken bones, no illness, no acute infections, and Pete gets to take Bowie home.

Which is where they are right now, with Pete sitting in the living room, humming to himself as he brushes Bowie’s dirty fur to get him ready for a bath. Patrick has kind of expected Pete to drag them to the next high-end dog saloon, but Pete has insisted on taking care of his dog himself. “Bowie is anxious and stressed enough,” was his argument, “and I want some bonding time now that I finally have him back with me.”

Makes sense to Patrick, who is currently sitting on the couch with his laptop, at a safe distance. Pete had argued that Bowie needs to get used to his presence, and Patrick has to admit, he hasn’t fully thought it through exactly what it means to take in a big white Husky with behavioral issues after months of neglect. While he has no doubt that Pete is an excellent caretaker and made sure to train his dog right, the time Bowie spent with Jeremy has left its toll.

What Patrick also learns right now is that Huskies _ shed_. They shed like crazy. The floor around Pete is full of white hair, and it just won’t stop.

Pete doesn’t mind at all that his clothes are full of dog hair now, he’s still smiling as he brushes Bowie, and he continues to hum to himself, which gives Patrick an idea.

“Hey, Pete. Wanna listen to some music?”

Pete looks up with an expression that’s between scared and guilty. “Yes, kinda,” Pete answers slowly as he nervously rakes a hand through his bleach-blond hair. “But, uhm. I can’t really follow a conversation all that well when there’s music in the background. I mean, I can _ hear _ it, but it’s hard to focus. It all becomes mixed up and muffled.”

Well, that explains why Pete has always taken them to restaurants with little to no background noise, why he’s never put on music when they’re in the car, why they’ve never listened to music together in the first place. The rare times Patrick has seen Pete listening to music, he was always wearing headphones, a convenient excuse of why he wouldn’t be able to follow a conversation.

Patrick shrugs helplessly. “We don’t need to talk. We can just listen to David Bowie and appreciate his talent as well as the fact that you picked a great name for your dog.”

“Hm...” Pete takes a moment to affectionately pat Bowie’s head, then says: “Actually, that sounds like a good idea.”

Patrick leaves it to Pete to put on the music and adjust the volume. It’s comfortable, just hanging out with him, and Patrick smiles to himself whenever he looks up from his screen to see Pete so blissfully serene and happy with his dog.

Once Pete is done brushing his dog, he takes Bowie for a bath. It takes a while, but when they’re done, Bowie looks a lot cleaner and well-groomed and more like the precious happy dog from Pete’s pictures. Patrick doesn’t try to pet him, but at least Bowie is comfortable enough to eat in the kitchen while Pete and Patrick sit at dinner as well. Pete has changed clothes (presumably because he got as wet as his dog in the process of bathing him), has already taken about a dozen photos of his dog, and excitedly tells Patrick about all the things he plans to get for Bowie’s well-being, from a high-class leash to the food the vet recommended to dog-proofing their fence.

“I’ll spend the night in my bedroom,” Pete says somewhat apologetically when they’re done eating. “It’s for the best. Bowie is still adjusting, I can’t sleep anyway, and you probably don’t want to deal with an anxious dog keeping you up all night.”

Patrick just nods his head. “Sure.”

Pete narrows his eyes. “Please don’t start giving me these one-word answers again. They make me feel like you’re trying to guilt-trip me. I already had two husbands who did that, I don’t need a third one to repeat it.”

“I’m not trying to guilt-trip you. I am just…” Patrick takes a deep breath, and tries to find the right words. “Well, of course I like spending time with you, and things like falling asleep while cuddling. But that doesn’t mean I ever want to make you feel guilty for taking care of your dog.”

That does not seem to satisfy Pete, who motions him to continue speaking. And surprisingly enough, Patrick finds he still has a lot to say.

“Really, it’s not me trying to make you feel bad. It’s just me being nervous. I never had a dog, I don’t know how to properly take care of Bowie, especially after everything he’s been through, and it makes me anxious. I want to do this right and support you, I just don’t know how, or if I can do that.”

“See? Now that’s an answer I can understand.” Pete smiles encouragingly at him. “You need to tell me that stuff, babe. I can’t be the only one in this relationship opening up.”

“I always wanted a dog as a kid. My dad always said no,” Patrick blurts out, now that Pete encouraged him. “He said no to a lot of things. But what hurts the worst is the feeling that he said no to me and my mom.”

“That sounds sad.” Pete cocks his head, reaches out a hand to gently trace over Patrick’s cheek. “Hey, if _ you _ need to talk, I’m here to listen, too.”

“Thanks,” Patrick says softly as he leans into the touch. “I will take you up on that offer.”

_ Please do that_, seem to be the unspoken words on Pete’s lips; he doesn’t say them, but Patrick can guess. But Pete wouldn’t force him, and he can’t do more than offer – it’s Patrick’s part now to accept that.

Pete kisses him goodnight, and although Patrick spends the night alone in bed, he doesn’t feel lonely.

Waking up alone isn’t too strange; most times, either Pete’s insomnia has kept him up anyway, and usually, he’s already up and productive way before any time Patrick deems acceptable for himself.

Patrick expects today to be no different, especially given that Pete has spent the night in his own bedroom. So he is surprised – quite pleasantly – when shortly after he’s texted a good morning to Pete (who already sent him three pictures of Bowie, a string of emojis, and a picture of the coffee he got for breakfast), his husband enters the master bedroom.

“Morning, babe,” Pete says with a soft smile as he sits down next to Patrick on the bed, and the kiss he gives Patrick tastes so sweet – quite literally. It’s probably because of the half-emptied giant Starbucks cup Pete has placed on the nightstand. “No, it’s fine, you don’t need to get up...”

With that, Pete straddles his lap, and Patrick feels how certain parts of him are suddenly a little more awake. Pete is in workout gear, something in bright neon green that should and would look ugly on anyone but him. The tanktop barely covers anything to begin with, and it doesn’t help that Pete has tied it up to reveal a glimpse of his bartskull tattoo. He looks ridiculous, but adorable, and he smells like sugary-sweet coffee and a hint of sweat. Patrick gently places his hands on Pete’s hips, feels the warmth of his body under his fingertips.

“Where’s Bowie?” Patrick asks as he traces over Pete’s exposed skin.

“Asleep. Poor boy is so tired, all the stress and extra exercise… We went for a long walk,” Pete answers with a big grin as he nods towards the coffee cup. “We went to the most crowded, popular Starbucks, and gave the paps a good chance for a nice photo, so everyone will see that I got my dog back.”

That explains the coffee, and the extra attention-grabbing outfit.

“It might be petty, but I couldn’t resist showing off a little. And I wanted it to happen on my terms.”

“I don’t think anyone has the right to judge you for that after everything you had to go through to get your dog back,” Patrick argues, and Pete laughs a little, leans in to peck another sweet kiss to Patrick’s lips.

For a while, they just kiss, slow and sensual, until Pete pulls back, and hums: “Tell me something you’d wanna do right now, babe.”

There is indeed something on Patrick’s mind, something new and almost scary that they never really talked about; but now that their relationship is doing better, now that Pete looks at him with an excited grin, Patrick feels confident enough to address it.

“Pete, uhm… Would you like to switch?”

Slightly surprised, Pete cocks his head. “Do you want to bottom?”

“I enjoy it, from time to time,” Patrick says nervously. “It’s just… A bit difficult for me. I need the right guy, I need to trust him, there has to be mutual respect and care...”

Pete says nothing, just looks at him, brows raised, as thoroughly awkward silence settles between them. He’s waiting, patiently, until a moment later, realization finally hits Patrick like a ton of bricks.

“Well. Same for me, babe,” Pete confirms as Patrick stares at him, not yet having processed everything. He trusts Pete, no doubt at that – Pete is kind, he’s caring, Patrick knows he would never do anything to hurt him, would never be selfish or thoughtless.

It just dawns on Patrick with visceral, unnerving, awful clarity, that the same thing can’t be said about himself.

“Oh,” is the not at all eloquent first word out of Patrick’s mouth.

The shock alone on Patrick’s face probably makes it more than clear what he is thinking. Pete nods, a frown tugging at the corner of his lips as he says: “Yeah. Exactly.”

_ Fuck _ is the next thing that comes to Patrick’s mind, although he bites back saying it out loud. What also comes to mind is all the times, especially at the beginning of their relationship, that warrant saying that. Patrick had almost pushed all of it aside, especially since they’re doing so much better and it was so much easier to disregard previous missteps, but it still _ happened_, it’s still there, and makes Patrick go red with shame as he recalls some of his earlier thoughts and memories. How quick he was to judge Pete, how he assumed him to be promiscuous and dirty, the demeaning thoughts and gestures, all while Patrick enjoyed himself without a second thought about the hypocrisy.

“Fuck, Pete, I’m so sorry,” Patrick blurts out, “I’m really, really sorry – I was an idiot, and I didn’t realize. I didn’t realize a lot of things… Fuck. But I _ want _ to notice when I’m doing something wrong, I _ want _ to know how to do it better.”

“I like to bottom. But it’s just a sexual preference, not a defining personality trait. And it _ pisses me off _ when people assume all these false and stupid things about me just because I occasionally enjoy having a dick up my ass. Really, it’s so goddamn _ shitty_!” Pete lets out a deep sigh, then smiles to himself; Patrick has the distinct feeling he’s not the only one addressed in the rant. “Ha. It felt good to say that.”

Patrick can’t help but smile, too. Pete has made such progress, he’s come so far from being the pretty model with a fake smile or the trophy husband who only found security in his looks and by letting others (mis)treat him how they wanted to, lest they hurt or left him. That he gets to see Pete grow more confident is so amazing and so rewarding.

“I’d also enjoy to top from time to time,” Pete continues with the same eagerness. “it’s just… Most of the guys I date or marry aren’t into that. They have one specific idea about me because of the way I look or act and because of what _ they _ want, and they don’t care for anything else.”

“Well, I don’t want to be that guy anymore,” Patrick says with slight hesitation. “I like you, Pete, I like you a lot, and I want this. If there’s anyone I trust in bed, it’s you. I… I don’t always trust myself, but you? Sure.”

Pete doesn’t roll his eyes at him, and he doesn’t say anything, either. He simply leans down to peck a kiss to Patrick’s cheek, mouth, down to his throat, to the collar of his shirt. It dawns on Patrick that even though their anxieties about looks stem from different reasons, in a way, Pete can still relate to not feeling adequate to whatever absurd standards society sets for them. It takes away some of the awe and idolization, and also the jealousy that Patrick sometimes felt when he looked at this gorgeous man at his side, who he assumed simply gets everything he wants in life because he’s pretty.

It makes Patrick sigh with relief and pleasure as Pete keeps kissing him, and makes him take off his shirt and boxers to grant Pete better access. There might be no quick and easy solution for either of them, but for now, Patrick feels a lot better. He feels amazing, actually, which is no wonder given the tender kisses Pete trails down from his chest to his belly, then to the inside of his thighs.

“Do you want me to suck your dick while I prep you?” Pete asks as he sits up, reaches for the lube in his bedside drawer.

“I’d love that,” Patrick mumbles as he feels how he blushes. Naked and with his legs spread, he feels more vulnerable than usual.

Pete hesitates, then says: “Can you repeat that? I have a really hard time understanding you whenever you mumble.”

“I said I’d love that,” Patrick repeats louder and more clear, with a bit of a guilty conscience – even now that he knows about Pete’s condition, it’s still easy to slip up and do something silly or inconvenient to Pete.

Pete smiles at him, then reaches for the lube to slick up his fingers.

Pete sucking his dick is always an exquisite pleasure, and it makes having to adjust to one, two, and then three fingers inside of him a lot easier. It’s been a while for Patrick, and it takes time to get used to it again. There’s still the familiar burn, a bit of hesitation, but Patrick still finds himself longing for more – especially once Pete has managed to find his prostate. When he gently motions Pete to stop, Pete sits up with a grin, wipes over his mouth, and asks: “Do you want me to use a condom?”

Patrick shakes his head. “I’m fine without one. You can come in me, if you want – I… I’d actually like that. But you have to come first, because whenever I bottom, I get really sensitive and overstimulated after my orgasm...”

Pete nods, a small gesture, but Patrick knows he can be sure Pete has not only listened to him, but will make sure to do as he asked. He withdraws is fingers to slick up his dick, and Patrick winces a little at the feeling; a moment later, he feels the blunt head of Pete’s dick nudging against his entrance. It’s difficult not to follow his first instinct and tense up, but Pete is gentle, takes his time as he carefully slides into Patrick. Once he’s all the way in, Pete stills, cups Patrick’s face in his hand, thumb tracing over Patrick’s lips.

“Fuck, I’m so not gonna last long,” Pete blurts out, and Patrick can’t help but laugh. It takes away the tension, and Patrick feels himself relax.

“It’s fine, we have plenty of time to try again,” Patrick says with a smile, and Pete playfully pouts at him, before he decides that kissing Patrick is the better option.

Slowly, Pete starts to move, and Patrick puts his hands on Pete’s hips, guides him into a good rhythm. Pete feels so fucking good in him, Patrick regrets not having asked sooner, regrets having been a stuck-up idiot, regrets all the awful things he thought about Pete while he happily put his dick inside of Pete.

Then, Pete shifts his position a little, changing the angle just enough to have his dick hit Patrick’s prostate, and Patrick stops thinking, stops worrying, stops anything that isn’t moaning Pete’s name or sliding a hand down to touch himself. Pete leans in to kiss him again, their kisses only broken up for a whispered moan or a deep groan. Neither of them talks much, but Pete is loud, and hearing all the beautiful sounds he makes is a delight. The sweet little moans, the smell of sex and sweat, the drag of Pete’s cock inside of him, Pete’s hands on his body and Pete’s lips pressed against his – it’s perfect pleasure, it’s lust and love, it’s hope and fear and everything Patrick could ever want or be afraid to lose.

“Were you serious about me coming first?” Pete groans between two kisses, “because – fuck, I’m so so close...”

Patrick tries to nod and make a vaguely approving noise, and thankfully, Pete understands what he means. He rests his forehead against Patrick’s, eyes closed, and Patrick can hear the breathy little “oh” as Pete comes, deep inside of him.

It’s enough to send Patrick over the edge as well; he’s barely been able to hold back, and it takes only a few more strokes until he comes as well, hard and intense as Pete still thrusts his hips, rides out the aftershock.

Patrick winces as Pete pulls out, leaving him sore and strangely empty. “Ugh, forgot how weird that feels,” Patrick mumbles as he inspects the mess between his legs. Pete looks at him, head cocked to the right, and Patrick remembers what Pete just told him, and repeats what he said a little louder.

“Oh, yeah. I know. Want me to clean you up?” Pete offers as he hands Patrick a tissue.

“It’s fine, I think we both need a shower.”

Pete grins at him, bats his lashes. “Some cuddles first?”

“Yes, yes of course...” Patrick pats the space on the mattress next to him, and a moment later, he has a happy Pete in his embrace. Patrick slings his arms around him, buries his nose in Pete’s bleach-blond hair; for a while, they just enjoy the warmth of the afterglow and each other’s embrace.

Eventually, they make it into the shower, take their time to clean each other’s bodies. Patrick has to hold his breath as Pete carefully washes his hair; Pete’s hands are so gentle, and every touch of his feels electric, gives Patrick goosebumps, makes him yearn for more.

Afterwards, as they get dressed, Pete doesn’t change back into the neon workout gear. Instead, he opts for the David Bowie shirt that Patrick gave to him, makes a lighthearted joke regarding the shirt and his dog’s name, and urges Patrick to get downstairs and have breakfast together.

Patrick smiles at him, because how can he not when Pete is just so adorable in every way, takes his hand, and together, they start into a new day.

Love, that pesky little word that holds so much meaning, still hasn’t been said, but Patrick knows it’s on the tip of his tongue, deep in the bottom of his aching heart, waiting to be set free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, everyone! 
> 
> Next week, we will be doing the Merry Little Peterick challenge, and I am quite busy before the holidays, so THP might need to wait a week. But I think I left the boys in a good place for now, you don't need to worry too much about them.   
(And you don't need to worry about Bowie, either - I know some people are wary when it comes to dogs, so please be assured, Pete's dog is doing fine, he's healthy, will stay with Pete, and he won't be harmed in this fic.)
> 
> See you all next time!~


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! It's been a while because life is complicated and I had a bit of a writer's block. Buuut, I return this Sunday to bring you a new chapter, and I hope I can get back to schedule.  
Thanks for all your support and lovely comments, it really helped me! <3  
And extra-thanks to Snitches, who's help and patience never fail to amaze me. 
> 
> As always, the quote on the moodboard is from a Mitski song! Also, have you noticed the slight changes in Pete's IG moodboards over time? At first, they just have Pete and Patrick at opposite ends, and the usual, somewhat impersonal IG aesthetics stuff. Then, some shots from Pete's new jobs are added, he starts to posts about his hobbies again, his old (and new) friends show up, and lately, Bowie of course! And some snapshots together with his husband have been added, too... ;)  
I just like a bit of visual storytelling. 
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy the new chapter!

It’s been two weeks since they got Bowie back. Their garden fence is dog-proofed, they have what feels like a lifetime supply of food and every dog accessory available, Pete has his old dog trainer as well as Bowie’s old dog sitter to take care of him. There’s a variety of snapshots and photos out there with Pete and Bowie at home, at the dog park, out for a walk, and a few of those include Patrick as well.

Bob, more than pleased, has managed to land them the puppy interview at Buzzfeed (“it’s going to look cute, non-sexual, and non-threatening, remember, the show you just did is _ Disney_, after all”), and things are going... well. Patrick likes to cautiously assume they’re going well. For now, at least.

Having Bowie with them has given Pete a huge boost both in happiness as well as in confidence – it’s not just a dog, the Husky is the symbol of severing ties with Pete’s ex forever, and of reclaiming what said ex wrongfully took or set out to destroy. And Patrick is growing rather fond of Bowie too, despite the husky not being very easy to handle.

Right now, they’re on their way back from an appointment with the vet, with Bowie in the back seat (wearing a harness with a dog seat belt because Pete says that’s safer for car travel, and because there is no way Pete would ever force his dog back into a dog crate, a place where Bowie has probably already spent more time than any dog ever should).

Bowie looks rather content, and the vet assured them he’s making good progress. He’s eating, he’s gaining weight, his fur looks healthier, he’s more trusting and less anxious. He doesn’t cry and whimper like he did the first few days, though he doesn’t really bark much either. Making noise, any noise, still seems to be associated with bad things – surely a lesson he was taught under Jeremy’s tyranny.

Pete turns to Bowie, coos: “Who’s a good boy? Is it you, Bowie?”

Bowie doesn’t bark, but he lets out a short howl, ears perked up, his tail wagging excitedly at these words. Pete smiles brightly, and Patrick can’t help but smile with him.

Back home, there’s a familiar red Audi parked in their driveway. Gabe is leaning against it, dressed in his own newest sports clothes collection, waiting.

“I’m so sorry we’re late,” Pete says apologetically as he hurries to help get Bowie out of the car. “Give me a minute, I’ll get changed and then we can start!”

With that, Pete is off, followed by a tail-wagging Bowie. Gabe is still leaning against his car, arms crossed over his chest, watching as Pete and his dog hurry inside.

“So, Pete got his dog back.”

Patrick smiles fondly. “Yes. It’s been a bit of a fight for us, but he’s back with Pete. I’m really happy for him.”

Gabe sighs, and his expression softens a little. “You surprise me. I thought you were just another rich dude who’s scared that I’ll fuck your husband behind your back, would get jealous, call me a racial slur or two and then you’d fire me and tell Pete to never speak to me again. Like Pete’s last husband.”

Well, that’s not too unexpected, given what Patrick already knows about Pete’s ex, and the no doubt less than stellar impression he made at the beginning. Patrick firmly shakes his head. “No. I would never do that. I know I made mistakes, but I’m – I’m working on myself. And on our relationship.”

“That’s good to hear.” Gabe uncrosses his arms, and he is grinning now. “Hey, you wanna watch us play?”

For a moment, Patrick hesitates – he’s not much into sports, but he is very much into Pete. And the wish to show some support and interest for what Pete clearly loves outweighs Patrick's disinterest in sports. “You know what? I want to.”

Gabe gives him another grin and a jovial pat on the shoulder, then they’re off to join Pete on the tennis court.

The match ends in a déjà-vu, with Pete sitting in the kitchen, biting back tears as Patrick carefully presses a paper towel to his knee – the same one Pete bruised the last time.

“See, I told you, this is where a pool boy comes in handy,” Gabe argues as he hands Patrick another paper towel. “Hang on, I’ll get the first aid kit.”

Adding to the chaos is Bowie, who, sensing his owner’s distress, is running around restlessly, letting out nervous little howls. Pete gets him to sit still at least, but from time to time, Bowie keeps making worried noises.

“Are you okay?” Patrick asks softly.

“It doesn’t hurt too much,” Pete only answers as he stares down at Patrick's hands. Bowie yelps again, ready to sprint over to Pete the moment Pete will let him. Patrick believes him, it probably doesn’t hurt much, but there’s something in Pete’s voice again that sounds weird, there’s a hurt in his eyes that isn’t just the bit of pain from a small injury. Last time, Patrick had assumed it was due to Pete worrying the wound might impact his job, but that doesn’t seem right, either...

Before Patrick can ask, Gabe returns with the first aid kid, this time, without Joe in tow. Despite his usual attitude, Gabe looks nervous as well, and it makes Patrick realize that of course, Pete’s friend is worrying about him – even if Gabe may cope differently, with bad jokes instead of, well. Letting out their bad moods on other people, like Patrick did. Gabe watches as Patrick tries his best to tend to the injury. Thankfully, it’s just a harmless small wound, one even Patrick thinks he can easily manage to put some ointment and a band-aid on, and much to his relief, neither Gabe nor Pete seem to doubt that either.

“See, all patched up,” Gabe proclaims as he eyes Pete’s knee, nods in approval. “Are you doing okay?”

“I’m alright,” Pete confirms, stretching his leg and wiggling his toes. “Give it a day or two, and I’ll get back on the tennis court.”

In response, Gabe tousles Pete’s bleach-blond hair, tells him to take it slow, and tells Patrick to take good care of his husband.

“I will,” Patrick assures him, and Pete nods, too. Patrick knows that Gabe surely still has his doubts about him, that he can’t undo all the wrongdoings and bad impressions immediately, but at least Gabe trusts him enough to give them both one last jovial pat on the shoulder, and say goodbye.

Once Gabe is gone, Pete leans in closer to Patrick, grins a little as he asks: “Oh, but one more thing… Can you kiss it better?”

There’s a playfulness to Pete’s request, sure, but he’s not just asking as a joke. So, Patrick leans in, carefully pecks a kiss to the band-aid on Pete’s knee, making sure not to apply any pressure or cause any pain. It’s a small gesture, a silly little sentimentality, just a shared little chuckle and soft smiles, and yet it feels so much more precious to Patrick than any brilliant, blinding million-dollar smiles to hide the hurt.

Pete motions for Bowie to come over, who’s more than happy to oblige. As Pete cuddles his anxious dog, Patrick gets up to get him a glass of water. Pete drinks slowly, one hand still petting Bowie, who at least seems a bit calmer now.

“Bowie’s such a good boy. He always knows when to comfort me.” Pete smiles at his dog, scratches Bowie’s ears. He hands Patrick the empty water glass, and says: “I still feel a bit dizzy. Would you mind…?”

Patrick holds out his hands for Pete to take. Nothing bad happens as Pete gets up, he just closes his eyes for a few seconds until the vertigo passes.

Carefully, Patrick puts a hand on Pete’s forehead, but Pete doesn’t feel feverish. “The vertigo, the dizziness… You’re not getting sick again, are you?”

“I’m not getting sick.” Pete takes a deep breath, and he hesitates, but then, points to his right ear. “Actually… It’s my ear, you know?”

“Your ear,” Patrick repeats puzzled, before realization hits. “Oh! Your ear… Because of the sense of balance, right?”

So, Pete hasn’t been “just clumsy”. It’s not something Patrick would’ve connected immediately, but now that Pete mentions it, suddenly, it makes sense. The problems he has with his ear is something Pete obviously didn’t want to admit back at the beginning of their relationship, which is why he happily offered up excuses, or tried to avoid the topic.

“Yeah. I’ve… Had some trouble with it.” Pete shrugs, despite the slight unease in his voice. “It’s not that bad, really. And there’s treatment, that usually helps for a while. It just comes back from time to time…”

Pete trails off, and although he still has some questions, Patrick decides not to push it. That Pete is willing to open up about all this is a big step, and for now, Pete doesn’t seem to want to reveal more.

“Are you taking good care of yourself?” Patrick asks, somewhat anxiously. “Do you have someone for your ear? Are you getting the treatment you need?”

Pete absent-mindedly traces over his right ear, before he nods. “I have. It’s just… Well. A bit complicated. And as I said, the vertigo and such just tends to come back from time to time. But – I think I’ll be fine.”

“You will be,” Patrick assures him, and when Pete chuckles, leans in to return the kiss, Patrick’s desperate, lovesick heart wishes nothing more but for these words to come true.

The next day passes without much trouble; Pete is busy all day, and so is Patrick, but they text, and they meet in the evening for dinner and hanging out while grooming Bowie. His white fur is almost impossible to keep clean, and there’s so damn _ much _ of it, even though Pete brushes him so frequently. Inevitably, everything and everyone will be covered in hair.

Still, that Pete wants to share that aspect of his life means a lot to Patrick, especially given Pete’s bad experiences with how his last ex-husband treated his dog.

When Patrick tells Pete of Gabe’s little speech from yesterday, he doesn’t seem too surprised either.

“Gabe’s right. Jeremy didn’t like him at all, and, yeah.” Pete shrugs, half apologetic, half uncomfortable. By now, Patrick has learned what happens when Jeremy doesn’t like something or someone, Pete and his friends have confirmed it again and again. “But we’re doing great, I’m having fun with Gabe. And Vicky is back in my life, too. And I have Joe and Travie and you.” Pete sends him a smile, then leans in to peck a kiss to Bowie’s head. “And I have you, too, Bowie! Who’s a good boy? Is it you?”

As Pete cuddles the dog, another question comes to mind.

“What about the pool?” Patrick has never considered actually using the pool, and so far Pete hasn’t mentioned it either, despite his interest in sports.

“Nah. Gabe’s just joking.” Pete shakes his head. “There’s a toddler living close to the pool, that could be dangerous. Also, there’s Bowie. He _ loves _ water, and I know how _ that _ will end. And I, well… I don’t really need another ear infection. I’m much happier with the tennis court.”

The words _ ear infection _ catch Patrick’s attention, even though Pete tries to be as casual about it as possible. Patrick takes a deep breath, and decides to ask: “An ear infection… Is that what damaged your ear?”

At first, Pete says nothing. He’s heard the question, Patrick is sure, given Pete’s reaction of furrowed brows and an uncomfortable silence.

“No,” Pete answers after a while, with a bitterness in his voice that makes Patrick shudder. “No. One day, I’ll tell you. It’s just...”

Patrick has a theory or two, some very ugly suspicions after some Google research on hearing loss and his knowledge of Pete’s past, but… It’s Pete’s story to tell, and so, Patrick just nods, reaches out to put his hand on Pete’s. Pete sighs a little, then sends Patrick a small smile as he squeezes his hand.

“Oh, and I’m afraid you have to get used to this.” Pete leans forward, brushes off some white dog hair from Patrick’s shirt. “I know, a white husky is probably not the best beginner’s dog in general, especially Bowie...”

“I like him,” Patrick says softly as he carefully reaches out to let Bowie sniff his hand, then scratches Bowie’s ears. After getting used to his new home and this new human in his life, Bowie now lets Patrick pet him. Which Patrick does, frequently so, enjoying it a lot.

For a while, they enjoy comfortable silence together. “My mom finally booked the plane tickets. She says she’s excited to meet you,” Patrick says eventually, feeling strangely anxious. They’ve been planning the visit for a while now, that’s not the problem. But his mom is going to meet Pete for the first time, and that feels like something very important – and it’s not made easier by Patrick's past mistakes with handling his marriage, or his mother.

“I’m excited, too! A bit nervous, but mostly, excited.” Pete cocks his head, looks at Patrick with curiosity. “I’ve been wondering… You only ever mention your parents. What about the rest of your family?”

“Really, it’s just me and my mom now.” Patrick sighs. “My grandparents are dead, my parents don’t have any siblings, and neither do I. So yeah. Just me and mom.”

Pete’s expression softens, and he reaches out to gently squeeze Patrick’s hand. “Hey. You have me now, too.”

_ Do I? _ is the question Patrick both desperately wants and doesn’t want an answer to. Patrick doesn’t ask; instead, he just lets Pete take him into his arms, enjoys the embrace, the gentle kiss Pete pecks to his forehead.

Next to them, Bowie has noticed the lack of attention. The husky shifts his position, puts his head on Pete’s lap and only stops whining when Pete and Patrick both reach out to pet him.

A few days later, Patrick finds himself at the gallery with Travie, waiting for Pete. Not because Pete is late, but because Patrick made sure to be there earlier. There’s something he wants to talk about with Travie in private.

“And what do you want to talk about?” Travie asks him now, even though Travie probably knows the answer already.

Patrick has brushed the topic of couples therapy with Pete, and even though Pete hasn’t brought it up again, it’s been on Patrick's mind ever since. It had been tempting, to share the emotional burden with Pete, have him there as support, and, if Patrick is being honest, part of him wanted to demand Pete’s presence for Patrick's own progress. But the more Patrick thinks about it and the more he tries to educate himself about it (privately – he does not yet know how to sell this idea to Bob), he realizes how much of an unfair expectation that had been, and that perhaps, in order to make progress, he needs to be willing to go this step towards mental health all alone. Even thought that’s going to be fucking scary, a lot of effort, and quite difficult – all kinds of situations Patrick likes to avoid.

He fiddles with the wedding band on his ring finger, and wonders why all these realizations and determination still don’t make this any easier.

“Hey, Travie? Can I ask...” Patrick takes a deep breath, shoves his hands into the pockets of his pants so no one notices they’re shaking a little. “Remember when we talked about therapy? You offered to recommend someone, and I, uhm. I’d like to take you up on that offer.”

Instead of being surprised or confused or showing any of the negative reactions Patrick’s worried mind kept imagining, Travie smiles at him, calm and reassuring, and nods. “Of course,” he simply says, “I’m happy to help, and I’m glad you’re asking.”

Relief floods Patrick, who’s heart is still beating way too fast. It feels like a big weight he hadn’t even noticed he carried has been lifted off his shoulders. Travie writes down a name and a number, and wordlessly hugs Patrick until he trusts his voice enough to say a heartfelt thanks to his friend.

“It’s so fascinating, isn’t it?”

Pete is standing in front of a large, colorful, almost psychedelic painting, Patrick next to him. Despite the bad memories of running into Jeremy last time, the atmosphere is surprisingly relaxed. Travie has stopped by for a quick chat and to make sure they’re doing fine, and now, it’s just the two of them. There are less people, less pressure, and Pete is animatedly talking about the artworks.

Pete leans in a little closer to inspect the painting. “I could look at it for hours,” he says with a grin, before he proceeds to point out some of the details to Patrick (who hasn’t even noticed half of them upon first glance). Even though Patrick isn’t as versed in art as Pete is, talking to him about art is still fun. Pete always has a way to excite people, and Patrick suspects that’s even more the case for those who are totally, utterly in love with him.

Patrick pushes that thought back, and decides to ask something else that has been on his mind. “Do you want to buy something?”

Pete takes a moment to think, then takes a deep breath and answers: “Actually, I do. But – with my own money.”

Surprised, Patrick says: “You don’t have to. I don’t mind -”

“Well, I _ do _ mind,” Pete interrupts him. “I’m a grown man, I earn my own money, and I can buy my own stuff.”

For a moment, there’s just awkward silence between them. So far, they’ve handled the topic of money very sparsely and very one-sided – they both know Patrick has more than enough, so Patrick has handed his husband a credit card, and that was about it. At the beginning of their relationship, it had been clear that Pete hadn’t been doing well financially at all, but ever since then… Well. It’s always been about Patrick’s money, whether his initial attempts to make sure the stranger he marries doesn’t try to scam him (a thought that nowadays makes Patrick blush with shame) or their postnup, which has also mostly dealt with Patrick’s fortune.

And Patrick's own money, he has to admit, has b(r)ought Patrick a lot of self-confidence in this marriage. It had been so easy to lean back and arrogantly assume that he was doing Pete a great favor by providing him with money, and deep down, when Patrick reexamines his ugliest thought from back when he thought it to be a great idea to get himself a trophy husband, it had felt reassuring, powerful even, to hold this advantage in their relationship.

Patrick shakes his head. “Sorry, it’s just… I know I haven’t really handled the topic of money all that well.”

“We both haven’t, I guess.” Pete nervously runs his hand through his hair. “But I’m going to buy the artwork I want, with my own money.”

Patrick nods, sighs to himself. “I… I’ve just taken it for granted, you know? That I have money, and all the advantages that it might bring with it. It felt so good to assume that I could just _ buy _ self-esteem.”

It’s embarrassing, and it’s an ugly truth to admit (although Patrick suspects that it doesn’t come as a complete surprise to Pete). Still, it feels like the right thing to say.

Pete sighs, runs a hand through his hair once more. “Well, and in most of my relationships… Money equals love, you know?”

“I know,” Patrick says, not without self-deprecation. “And that’s not how I want to express my feelings.”

“Good. Because – because that’s not how I’m going to measure how much I’m loved anymore.” Pete looks very determined when he says that; it’s a seemingly simple statement with a long and loaded history behind it, Patrick knows.

“Pete, can I ask… How come you were broke in the first place? You don’t actually seem all that irresponsible with money, and Jeremy sure had more than enough money to pay for his lavish lifestyle...”

“Oh, I _ was _ irresponsible and stupid.” Pete’s face reddens with embarrassment. “Jeremy always told me that he was the smart one, he was the successful one, he had an Ivy League degree, he worked a prestigious job in the movie industry… And I was just the silly little model, who should leave all these complicated things to my clever husband. Which means he had full access and control over most of my accounts… So you can imagine what happened when he decided to divorce the hell out of me. And what I had left, I mostly spent on said divorce.”

“That’s awful, and it’s not your fault!” Angrily, Patrick wonders how Pete’s ex keeps revealing himself to be even more awful than Patrick already had assumed. “If anything, it’s Jeremy’s fault for being such an awful piece of shit.”

Pete shakes his head, lips pressed into a thin line. “It was stupid, and I’m never doing anything like that again.”

Patrick almost feels like letting out a cynical laugh. After everyone had pressured him to make sure that Pete, the supposed gold digger, doesn’t run off with his money, really, it was Pete who worried all along that he would encounter yet another abusive asshole who would try to hurt him in every way possible.

Pete takes a deep breath, shakes his head again, as if to get rid of the worrisome thoughts. “Let’s not be so negative. We’re here to enjoy the artworks, aren’t we?”

“I do enjoy them, but what I enjoy most is just spending time with you,” Patrick answers honestly, and Pete chuckles, then leans in for a tender little kiss that makes Patrick blush more than it should.

“Let’s go buy some art then,” Pete says afterwards, excited now, with a bright smile. “C’mon, babe, I’ll show you what I have in mind...”

When they return home, heavy words are traded for lighthearted kisses, dark worries temporarily put aside for tender touches and sweet nothings whispered into each other’s ear (loud enough that Pete can still understand what Patrick is saying).

Right now, Patrick is sitting in Pete’s lap, thighs bracketing Pete’s hips, Pete’s dick sliding deeper and deeper into him.

“This is – ah, this is a little weird,” Patrick admits as he squirms a little, trying to adjust; he’s still a bit out of practice, and on top of that, he’s on top of Pete in an all new position that makes him strangely self-conscious.

“Weird, but good, I hope,” Pete pants, his hands gently tracing over Patrick’s hot, sweaty skin. “Because damn, you feel so fucking great...”

Patrick doesn’t answer, just tries to steady his breath, tries to be less nervous. One of Pete’s hands slides down to Patrick’s dick, teasingly tracing over it, before wrapping around the shaft. Patrick moans, arches into the touch a little, but doesn’t dare to move much otherwise. Pete starts stroking his cock, slow and sensual, his pretty eyes fixed on Patrick, waiting for Patrick’s reaction. It takes a moment, then, Patrick feels how pleasure takes over, making him shiver in anticipation.

Pete grins, one hand still tending to Patrick’s dick, the other reaching up to cup Patrick’s chin. “C’mere and kiss me...”

Patrick leans in to do exactly that. He meets Pete’s lips for soft, sweet kisses, and tries to move a little. It’s still weird at first, to feel the drag of Pete’s dick inside of him, and it takes Patrick a few moments to work out a good pace. But once it all falls into place, it feels utterly incredible, oh just as good, if not better, than Patrick anticipated.

“You feel fucking great as well,” Patrick pants back, and he too has to chuckle when Pete lets out a lighthearted laugh at his words.

Then, Pete bucks his hips, and after some tries, he manages to move just right, his dick brushing against Patrick’s prostate each time, making them both cry out with pleasure. It’s almost too much, and Patrick brushes Pete’s hand off his cock; Patrick feels himself getting close, but he wants Pete to come first because damn it, this is a lot of effort (really, he has not given Pete enough credit for how much effort riding dick is), and Patrick wants to feel how Pete comes, wants to see his face, wants to hear him.

Indeed, Pete moans loudly under him, his hands now clutching Patrick's hips. Ah, nothing is as satisfying as the sweet little “oh” Patrick kisses from Pete’s pretty lips as he comes.

Patrick shudders as Pete’s dick slides out of him. It’s always so awkward to feel so empty again. That is soon forgotten when Pete gently motions him off his lap and to lay down, then leans over him, his face fuck-flush and his pretty amber eyes full of adoration.

“This was fucking amazing, babe,” Pete whispers. “But next time, you gotta let me make _ you _ come first. Now, want me to suck you off?”

Well, there’s no way Patrick could deny that tempting offer.

Pete grins upon Patrick’s excited nod, presses a kiss to Patrick’s lips, then trails down to his dick. Pete’s mouth is hot and wet, irresistible already, and then he slides two fingers back into Patrick, rubs over Patrick’s prostate – ah, there’s no way Patrick can hold back. He comes, hard, Pete’s name at the tip of his tongue.

Pete sits up, licks his lips, looks at Patrick with a big grin. Patrick smiles back (or at least he hopes that’s what his mouth is doing), then Pete cuddles up to him, sighs happily as he rests his head on Patrick’s chest. Getting to hold Pete in his arms is always a wonderful thing, even if these days, Patrick wonders if Pete notices that his lovesick heart is beating even faster than usual.

Pete lets out another sigh, a purr, almost, his fingers tracing an invisible pattern over Patrick’s skin. “Mmm, I almost forgot how much fun this could be…”

“Yeah,” Patrick whispers back, “so did I.”

They don’t talk much as they clean themselves up and get ready for bed, but it’s a comfortable silence. Just the mundane, quiet little moments of a shared life, like brushing one’s teeth over the same sink or Pete stealing one of Patrick's shirts to sleep in.

“It’s warm and soft and cute,” Pete explains with a wink, tugging at the red flannel shirt, “just like you.”

And when Patrick looks at Pete sitting on their bed, with his messy bleach-blond hair, the sweet smile, the honest happiness in his pretty eyes – and all the terrifying worries, every thoughtful conversation Patrick has played out in his head, all of it is forgotten because right here, right now, there’s only one thing Patrick can say.

“Pete...” Patrick takes a moment to cherish how Pete’s name tastes, precious and familiar and wonderful, before he finally says what he’s been holding back. “Pete, I’m so in love with you.”

It feels so good, so wonderful to say it out loud, and so utterly, dreadfully scary. It makes Patrick want to laugh with joy, makes him want to scream his love for Pete from every LA rooftop, and it makes him want to bite his lips until he can taste blood. Being in love with Pete is the best feeling in the world, but to know that Patrick himself has helped to ruin perhaps all chances of ever having that love be more than a one-sided epilogue to a terrible marriage – nothing has ever hurt that much.

Pete stays quiet, and Patrick wants to hug him, wants to kiss him, wants Pete to take him into his arms and say everything is fine, even if that’s a lie – just for a little while. Patrick doesn’t do any of that, and neither does Pete. But Pete does take Patrick's hands into his; they look so naked with the wedding bands taken off for the night.

“I’m scared,” Pete says after a while, his thumb tracing over Patrick’s palm. “I’m scared to fall in love with you, because all the men I loved before… They hurt me so much. How can I trust myself to ever fall in love with the right person again?”

It’s a question Patrick knows no answer to. It’s a problem Patrick knows he hasn’t helped to solve. He gently squeezes Pete’s hands, and says: “I know that I contributed to making you feel that way. And I – I decided I’m going to see a therapist, and I’m going to work on myself and on my issues. I want to work on being the best husband I can be for you, for as long as you want to be with me.”

When Patrick looks up to Pete, there’s a small smile softening Pete’s expression.

And Patrick knows it’s going to be worth every step, every obstacle, every tear and every heartbreak – for his own sake, and for the man he loves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading, and as said, thanks for all your support!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! It's been a while, but in my defense, that's because in the meantime, the world has gone mad. I hope you and your loved ones are safe and healthy.   
Alas, I've returned to fanfic - we can all use some escapsim, right? Let's see what the boys are up to this week. 
> 
> Thanks to Snitches for being awesome, and as always, lyrics are from the way too relatable Mitski.

It’s a regular LA Tuesday morning. The stars and starlets are sleeping in, or getting their coffee, or working out. Or they are standing in front of their therapist’s office, like Patrick. 

It doesn’t feel as hip or glamorous as Bob made it out to be (who assured him that mental health is a big buzzword these days, and that Patrick shouldn’t worry), it’s mostly scary and intimidating – not only because it’s the first step into a new direction, but also because it’s the first, difficult step in a long, difficult journey on a road that’s clouded in the fog of uncertainty and fear.

Patrick takes a deep breath, and tells himself that whatever lies ahead, no matter the pain and hard work it may cost, it has to be better than the mess that lies behind him.

At first, it’s like he’s sleep-walking through it; he’s moving his feet, he’s going inside, he’s saying words to the receptionist and shaking the therapist’s hand and agreeing to call him Gerard rather than Mr. Way, but he only realizes where he is and what is about to happen as Gerard closes the door to his office behind them.

Gerard looks less like the vague mental image Patrick had of a therapist, and more like a quirky professor. Someone who needs his secretary to make sure he doesn’t forget to eat or stays up for the third night in a row, but who’s absolutely stellar at his chosen field. He seems nice, too. There’s something comforting about him that makes Patrick feel like he is about to have a nice chat rather than a scary therapy session.

There is no couch, just an armchair, and Patrick takes a moment to take in the environment as Gerard sits down. Not behind the desk, but in the armchair opposite Patrick, only a small coffee table giving somewhat of a distance. Patrick isn’t sure he likes this, and he’s even less sure his dislike means anything good. He suppresses a sigh, and takes another moment to look around. Gerard quietly watches him as he does so, only speaking up when Patrick's gaze lingers on the painting behind the desk. It’s a simple but very realistically drawn pipe, with a sentence in French underneath it.

“Do you know what it says?” Gerard asks, his eyes still on Patrick.

“_Ceci n'est pas une pipe_,” Patrick reads dutifully, “this is not a pipe.”

Gerard nods. “And what do you think it means?”

“Uhm, well...” Patrick trails off, not very eloquent, and already anxious about the unexpected question. He squints his eyes, trying to pick out any details, but the painting just looks like a regular pipe to him. “Am I not seeing it right? Because as far as I can tell, that _ is _ a pipe.”

“It certainly looks like a pipe, yes.” Gerard leans in closer, sends him a friendly smile. “But _ is _ it a pipe?”

Patrick bites his lip, takes a moment to think. The way Gerard phrases the question implies there’s a twist. “I guess… It’s not literally a pipe? It’s just a drawing of a pipe.”

“Indeed. It’s just a painting. Or, in this case, the reproduction of a painting.” Gerard nods again, and Patrick feels irrational relief over his approval. Maybe, he’s braved the first hurdle of therapy. “We’re easy to dismiss details, and to see things like we want them to see,” Gerard explains patiently as he leans back. “We like to insist it’s a pipe, because it’s the most obvious and the easiest explanation – despite the artist actively challenging our views.”

Patrick smiles nervously. He has the certain feeling it’s not just about a painting.

For now, Gerard doesn’t elaborate on his little metaphor. “Well, Patrick. Tell me something about yourself,” he says instead.

At this point, Patrick thinks his attempt at a nervous smile probably looks more like a grimace. “I think everything _ could _ be fine,” he starts cautiously. He waits, but Gerard doesn’t say anything, just gives him an encouraging nod. “My career is going alright, I’m not in any financial trouble, I have friends, I have a lovely husband… Yeah, I think everything could be fine.”

“You said it could be fine,” Gerard repeats, and even though he’s still friendly, Patrick senses he’s not going to like what he’ll say next. “So, Patrick, tell me: _ is _ everything fine?”

It’s a seemingly simple question that flushes Patrick's face with the heat of embarrassment. The answer is so obvious and simple: No. No, everything is not fine. That’s all that needs to be said, and yet, it’s going to be so fucking scary to say it. Because it’s going to open the door to all the way more complicated, way more hurtful answers laying behind this one sentence.

Perhaps his initial judgment about a nice chat was completely wrong.

Part of Patrick still wants to just walk out the door, barricade himself at home, and never interact with anyone outside of work ever again. That wouldn’t fix his problems, but at least eradicate them, right?

“No, it’s not,” Patrick mumbles, quietly at first; out of habit, he clears his throat and speaks up a little louder. “No, it’s not. It’s not fine at all.”

And then, Patrick talks.

  
  


While Patrick had dreaded the thought of an entire hour of just having to talk about himself, time flies by and before he knows it, the hour is up. Patrick doesn’t know whether to be relieved or scared. He books another appointment, shakes Gerard’s hand, and leaves his office feeling both much lighter and ten times heavier than before. As Patrick drives home, he tries not to go over the growing mental list of topics he wants to bring up next time.

When Patrick enters the house, he first hears a little howl from Bowie, then hears Pete say: “What’s that, Bowie? I think Patrick is home! You wanna go look, boy?”

With Pete’s permission, Bowie storms into the hallway, wagging his tail and letting out another excited little howl as he runs up to greet Patrick.

Patrick reaches out to let Bowie sniff his hand, then pet the excited husky. He’s really glad that Bowie has become so much more open towards him. “Hello Bowie,” he says with a little chuckle, “let’s go and join Pete, shall we?”

Bowie follows him back into the kitchen, where Pete is hanging out with Joe and Rose.

“You found Patrick! What a good boy you are,” Pete coos at Bowie as he gestures Patrick to come over. “Look, I think he has a treat for you!”

Pete hands the treat over to Patrick, who happily hands it out to the eager dog. Pete grins at the sight, gives Bowie one last pat, then turns to Patrick. “Hey there, babe,” he says, now in a softer voice, before pecking a kiss to Patrick's cheek. For an awkward moment, they just look at each other, neither of them knowing what to say and how to say it. There’s a silent question in Pete’s thoughtful eyes; Joe is the one who asks it.

“How was therapy?”

“Exhausting,” Patrick answers honestly, which earns him a little chuckle and a pat on the back from Joe. Pete sends him a small smile, squeezes his hand. There are more questions on the tip of his tongue, Patrick can tell.

“We all went on a walk, and got a little snack,” Pete says instead, nodding towards the paper bags and coffee cups on the kitchen counter. Two of them are half-empty already, but there’s a third one, still full, which Patrick assumes is his.

“Snack!” Rose interjects, making grabby hands at the food. “Daddy, a snack!”

“That word she knows, of course.” Joe rolls his eyes, smiling nonetheless as he reaches for one of the bags to grab a cinnamon roll. “There you go, sweetie. Half of it now, and you can have the other half after your nap.”

With that, Joe grabs his half-emptied coffee and the rest of his food, and bids them goodbye. Once he’s left, silence settles between Patrick and his husband once more.

“Got something for you as well. Thought you might appreciate it,” Pete says eventually as he hands Patrick one of the coffee cups. When Patrick takes it, his hands linger on Pete’s for a little longer, and Patrick wishes nothing more than to hug him. Pete doesn’t look like he wants to be hugged though, and Patrick tells himself he hasn’t just had his first session of therapy to immediately go and invade Pete’s personal space just for his own emotional comfort.

“Thank you,” Patrick says instead, a small smile on his lips. “That’s sweet of you. No pun intended.”

“Oh, it’s sweet indeed,” Pete replies with a grin as he gestures Patrick to sit down, then hands him a caramel brownie from one of the paper bags. He takes one for himself, then sits down opposite of Patrick. “So… You wanna talk? Or talked enough already?”

Patrick takes a deep breath. “It was good. My therapist is nice. And I talked way more than I thought, and I still feel like I barely scratched the surface. I didn’t expect that...”

“Yeah, I know that feeling. Scary, isn’t it?” Pete takes a sip of his coffee, then adds: “But you made the first step, that’s what counts.”

For a while, they just eat in silence, both of them caught up in their own thoughts. Patrick wonders what Pete’s experiences have been like, and what he is medicated for – perhaps, one day, Pete might feel comfortable enough to share that.

Something else is on Patrick's mind though. “Hey, Pete… Do you know that painting of a pipe? With _ this is not a pipe _ written on it in French?”

“Oh! You mean the Magritte painting?” Pete takes out his phone, brows furrowed as he taps on the screen, before showing it to Patrick. And indeed, the picture on screen is the painting from Gerard’s office.

“That’s the one I mean,” Patrick confirms, not surprised that Pete already knew it. “I saw it at my therapist’s office today. Can I ask… What do you think it means?”

Pete takes a moment to think. “There’s not one definitive meaning of art. It’s not as easy as just saying it’s a pipe, or even saying it’s not a pipe. Even something that seems so simple can be a lot more complicated and thought-provoking at second glance – if we allow ourselves to engage with it and think about it.”

That sounds a little bit like what Gerard said, and actually, makes a lot of sense. Pete cocks his head to the right, eyes fixed on Patrick, waiting for an answer.

“You put it much better into words than I could,” Patrick says. “It’s just been on my mind, and… I knew you’d be the right one to ask.”

“Your therapist chose a good painting.” Pete smiles, more to himself than to Patrick, as he takes a bite of his brownie. Realizing there is food, Bowie walks up to Pete, wagging his tail, eyes fixed on the brownie in Pete’s hand.

“That’s not for you, Bowie,” Pete says sternly, and for a moment, it looks like the husky is about to give up.

Then, before Patrick can really react, Bowie jumps up on him, front paws on Patrick's thighs, as he tries to grab the brownie in Patrick's hand. At least, Patrick manages to get that out of the dog’ss reach before Bowie can do so.

“Bowie! Get down, _ now_,” Pete orders in a low voice, slightly annoyed. Bowie turns his head to Pete, makes a noise of protest, but follows the order when Pete repeats it for a second time. Despite Bowie’s sad eyes as he follows Pete’s command to stay, Pete remains unimpressed, and the brownie remains out of the dog’s reach.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Patrick stutters nervously, “did I do something wrong?”

“No. Bowie knows not to jump up on people, usually...” Pete looks at his dog, who makes a sad noise. “And he shouldn’t try to grab food from you that’s clearly not meant for him. That’s disrespectful _ and _ dangerous. Isn’t it, Bowie?”

Bowie understands he’s being scolded, and makes another sad noise. Again, it doesn’t persuade his owner to let him grab the chocolate brownie. Pete sighs, then sends Patrick a pensive gaze, before he asks: “How about you join us for a session with my dog trainer? Bowie and you can bond some more, and you can get a professional crash course in how to handle a husky.”

Patrick nods eagerly. “Yes, I’d really like that. I really like Bowie, and I’d like to learn everything I can to make sure I treat him right.”

Pete hums in agreement, reaches for his phone to type a quick message to said dog trainer. It may seem like a small step, but Pete is inviting him into his life a little more, and Patrick couldn’t be happier.

Those deep thoughts are interrupted when Pete puts his phone away, and asks: “Hey, uhm, are you still sure I shouldn’t take tomorrow off? I could still try to reschedule...”

“No, I can pick up my mom by myself, don’t worry.” When Pete looks at him with uncertainty, Patrick adds: “Really, she won’t hold it against you if you have to work. Besides, she will stay with us for the week, we can spend plenty of time with her.”

Pete runs a hand through his bleached hair, like he always does when he’s nervous. “I just don’t want to leave a bad impression. I… I haven’t had the best relationships with my in-laws so far.”

How could Patrick’s mother _ not _ like the man Patrick loves so much? Even if Patrick takes off the rose-colored glasses, Pete remains a charming guy who can easily carry a conversation and enchant the people around him, that’s not what Patrick is worried about at all. He is a lot more worried about himself and the apology he owes her, but that’s not for Pete to worry about.

“You’ll be fine,” Patrick assures him, reaching out to squeeze Pete’s hand. “My mom is nice. I’m sure she’ll like you. How could she not?”

It’s a rhetorical question, and yet, Pete hesitates, as if he wants to answer. That little moment of doubt, that shadow in Pete’s amber eyes as he parts his lips to spit out venomous words about himself like he’s done so often before, makes Patrick's heart ache.

To his surprise, Pete just lets out a little sigh, shakes his head as if to rid himself of whatever bad thoughts plague him, and simply says: “Alright, I’ll trust you on that.”

That Pete didn’t go with his initial impulse to say something self-deprecating, repeat whatever awful things his ex(es) called him that Pete grew to believe to be true – Patrick can’t help but smile with relief as he squeezes Pete’s hand again. And when Pete grins back at him, Patrick’s heart aches for a different reason.

The day has come. Patrick is at the airport, standing among the anonymous crowd, fiddling with his glasses as he watches the people pass by. He is waiting for his mother, who should exit the gate any minute now. Pete has texted him a bunch of emojis and some reassuring words, for which Patrick is pretty thankful. Right now, his heart is pounding in his chest, and he’s sweating more than usual, the cold sweat making his shirt stick to his pale skin. Patrick hasn’t seen his mother in months, and ever since then, he’s gotten married to a stranger, he’s discovered fear and love, and he’s discovered that neither his husband nor Patrick himself are the people Patrick thought they’d be.

Patrick doesn’t know how to tell his mom what happened, why it happened, and what the future may hold for him and a husband that might not stay his husband for much longer. Patrick doesn’t know... Well, right now, he feels like he doesn’t know anything.

Before Patrick can freak out even more, he makes out the familiar face of his mother in the crowd.

Patricia says things like “I missed you so much” and “I’m so glad to see you” as she hugs him, and Patrick wants to cry, wants to say too much at the same time, so he doesn’t manage to say anything at all.

Has his mother always been this small in his embrace? Has there always been that harsh line next to her mouth only softened by her usual warm smile? Has she always looked at him with a tinge of worry in her eyes? The passage of time is a scary concept that makes Patrick shudder, and the thought that he worried her so much makes him blush with guilt.

“How are you doing?” Patricia asks, and Patrick opens his mouth to say something clever, something eloquent, something that explains his situation in a few simple words.

“Mom? I messed up,” is what comes out in a small voice, “I really, really messed up and I am so, so sorry.”

Patricia simply hugs him tighter, and says: “I know, dear.”

It’s been a while since his mom has been at Patrick's house. _ Their _ house, now that he’s married. _ Their _ home, for as long as Pete wants him there, that is.

Patricia sits on the couch, listens patiently as Patrick tries to give her an abridged version of just what happened these past months. Patrick stumbles over words, and it’s a little like he’s back in Gerard’s office – he feels open and exposed and way too vulnerable, even though it’s his mother who’s sitting opposite of him. She doesn’t interrupt him, only asks a few simple questions here and there, and reaches out to squeeze his hand or pat his knee once in a while.

Once he’s done talking, Patrick feels a lot better and worse at the same time. Better because he’s finally having his mom back in his life, worse because all he can tell her is about how he ruined his marriage and hurt Pete before she ever even got to meet her son-in-law.

“Oh, Patrick,” Patricia says now, before she lets out a deep sigh. The way she says his name carries a lot of complicated emotions and meaning and yet is strangely comforting, in a way only a mother can pull it off. “How could you ever think this was a good idea?”

“I don’t think I could really convince myself it was a _ good _ idea. But I – well, I did like all the advantages I thought it would give me. That I could have a pretty husband, and do this so much better than dad did...” Patrick bites his lips, embarrassment coloring his cheeks a deep red. “And now, I’m just ten times worse than him.”

Patricia only shakes her head, sternly tells him: “It’s _ your _ life. You don’t need to make up for your dad’s mistakes. And you can’t excuse your own mistakes by blaming it all on _ him_, either.”

“You’re right.” Patrick takes a deep breath. “Mom, I’m so sorry for everything I said to you, and I’m sorry I blamed you for my mistakes as well. I’m so sorry I pushed you away. I’m going to therapy now, and I’m working on myself.”

“That’s good, Patrick. I’m proud of you.” Patricia reaches out to cup Patrick’s face, and she’d ruffle his hair, were it not for his hat. “And I told you, you’ll always be my little boy.”

With that, Patricia draws her son into a hug, and this time, despite everything, Patrick feels like a huge weight has been lifted from his shoulders. He hugs her back, comforted when she simply pats his back, whispers some reassuring words as Patrick sniffles into her shoulder.

  
  
  


Pete comes home not long after them. The first thing Patrick hears is an excited yelp from Bowie (who’s always excited when guests are over, especially someone he doesn’t know) followed by Pete’s voice: “Bowie, _ no_. Sit. We’re not jumping up on people, remember?”

Patrick goes to greet him in the hallway, where he finds a rather nervous looking Pete, with Bowie sitting next to him.

“There you go, that’s a good boy.” Pete pets Bowie, less for the husky’s comfort and more for his own. “Hey, babe. Did everything go well? I hope I’m not too late?”

“Pete. Everything is fine,” Patrick assures him in a soft voice, before he pecks a small but sweet welcome kiss to Pete’s cheek.

Pete takes a deep breath, then takes Patrick’s hand. “Let’s go meet your mom.”

As Patrick suspected, there was nothing for Pete to worry about. His mom simply introduces herself, and asks if she can hug him. When Pete agrees, she draws him into an embrace, and says: “Welcome to the family.”

Pete opens his mouth, but then says nothing; he simply hugs her back, words traded for a half-happy and semi-sad smile on his pretty lips.

They’re out for dinner, and since his mom left the choice up to them, they’re at a nice little restaurant that Pete suggested. Now that Patrick knows, he notices that the music is rather quiet, and the other guests can barely be heard from their table. Pete still leans in a little whenever someone is talking, and when their waiter speaks too quietly, Patrick is the one to casually ask him to speak a bit louder.

All in all, the conversation is kept light. Pete talks about his day at work, talks about Bowie, and promises Patrick’s mom that tomorrow, he will give her a full tour of the redecorated house. They talk about Travie’s exhibition, about Chicago, and anything else that’s not too troubled.

As Patrick expected, his mom is nothing but charmed by Pete, who, after the initial nervousness has mostly worn off, is all bright smiles and ugly, yet endearing laughter. Despite all the dark clouds looming over them, this evening feels like a little ray of sunshine.

The smile on Pete’s lips is an honest one, Patrick knows, one that makes his heart skip a beat, one that makes him want to whisper a thousand _I_ _love you_’s into Pete’s ear in between tender, loving kisses. Another ray of sunshine that Patrick wants to cherish and protect, no matter what it may take.

Patrick wonders if maybe, this is what he could have had all along. Patrick wonders if perhaps, this little preview of possibilities is all he will ever get. He makes a mental note to talk to Gerard about all that, yet another topic on the growing list of fears and trouble to address.

But Patrick temporarily forgets his worries when he hears Pete chuckle over something his mom said, and feels how Pete takes his hand into his, wedding bands clanking against each other as Pete laces their fingers together. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, everyone!
> 
> That damn painting was present in my own therapist's office, so I couldn't resist sneaking it into this fic, too. Being a bit of an art nerd though, I had known it before already - really, it's a great painting and Magritte is an amazing artist, go check him out. Pete here agrees with me on that!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! How is life treating you? I hope you and your loved ones are well. Without further ado, let us see how the boys are doing!
> 
> Thanks to Snitches for all her support, it's so appreciated. <3  
Song lyrics are from Mitski, to no one's surprise.

As expected, Patricia has quickly grown to like Pete. At first, Pete had been a bit more reserved than usual, no doubt nervous, but it hasn’t taken long for him to get more comfortable being around Patrick’s mother. Pete has shown her around the house, they’ve talked a bit about the artwork Pete bought, and conversation in general is smooth and with genuine sympathy on both sides. Knowing about the difficulties of their situation, Patricia refrains from heavy topics, she doesn’t ask about plans for the future or grandchildren. Instead, she asks Pete all about his job, hobbies, about Bowie, and if Pete would like some homemade pasta for dinner, insisting that _ someone _has to use their kitchen from time to time for something other than heating up meals or making protein shakes.

Patricia tousles Pete’s hair, tells some obligatory and semi-embarrassing stories from Patrick’s childhood that make Pete laugh his endearing brash laugh, and she makes them _ pancakes _ for breakfast.

It feels a bit like they’re sixteen and it’s summer vacation, when the responsibilities of the real world seem less daunting for a while, the sun promises heat and sweat during lazy make-out sessions, and everything seems possible.

“Your mom is so nice. I’m so glad she likes me,” Pete says when he and Patrick sit together in the garden one evening, dusk painting everything in the soft colors of the evening. They’ve been playing with Bowie for a while, until the Husky grew tired. He has resorted to just laying in Pete’s lap, getting petted. Today was their first dog training session together, and Patrick can’t recall the last time he and Pete have laughed together so much. Pete has booked another appointment already, and Patrick can’t wait.

“Oh, she totally _ adores _ you,” Patrick confirms as he leans closer to scratch Bowie’s ears.

While Pete doesn’t outright object, there’s a shadow of doubt in his expression. “I’m kinda scared. I mean… She might be one Google search away from forming a less favorable opinion of me.”

The concern might not be addressed at him, but Patrick still feels guilt tug at his heart. He knows all too well that he has had a bad habit of just believing whatever suited his predetermined picture of who Pete was – or rather, what Patrick wished him to be. More than one session with Gerard has been spent on that topic already.

“I don’t think my mom is the type of person to be influenced by that,” Patrick answers carefully. “I know she won’t make the same mistakes I did.”

Pete simply nods, and although he doesn’t say anything, Patrick very much feels the need to speak up.

“I’m sorry that I believed the rumors,” Patrick says in a small voice. When Pete cocks his head and looks at Patrick with raised eyebrows, Patrick hurries to repeat himself, louder this time. “I’m sorry that I believed the rumors about you. I’m sorry that I only saw what I wanted to see.”

“Sometimes, even I believed all the bad things said about me,” Pete says eventually. “Sometimes, I didn’t even know who I was anymore. But when I married you, I knew who I _ wanted _ to be, and I wanted to make sure that was all you’d ever get to see of me. No wonder you got the wrong impression.”

That sounds scarily close to other self-deprecating statements Pete has made in the past, as well as his desire to appear perfect, no matter the cost. It’s an explanation and the possibility of an excuse that Patrick knows he’d once taken and used to justify his own bad behavior, because it was so easy to point to Pete (and anyone else portraying him in a bad light) and blame everything on them.

“No, I can’t blame you for the way_ I _ acted. I wanted to believe the lies, and I didn’t try to really question anything, because that was easy and convenient and a good enough excuse to be egotistical and dismissive. I hurt you, and I’m sorry.”

Pete nods again, and the way he looks at Patrick – it’s not yet forgiveness, but it’s progress.

“I’ve been thinking...” Pete takes a deep breath, rakes a hand through his bleach-blond hair. “I’ve been thinking about seeing a therapist again as well. For, you know… Talking. Not just getting a prescription refill.”

“I think that’s a good idea,” Patrick says gently, with as much reassurance as he can put into his voice.

“And I should call my mom. No, not should, I _ want _ to call my mom. It’s been a while...” Pete trails off, and it doesn’t look like he wants to elaborate. Not for now, at least.

Patrick reaches out to take Pete’s hand into his, squeezes it lightly. “If you need my help or support, I’m here for you.”

“I know you are.” Pete squeezes back, sends him a warm smile. Patrick smiles back, tempted to lean in and peck a kiss to Pete’s lips.

That thought gets pushed back for now, as his mom’s voice interrupts their little moment. “Boys, I’m back,” Patrick hears her calling out from the kitchen, before she enters the garden. “Ah, there you are. Are you hungry? Should we have dinner?”

“Yes, that would be amazing,” Pete answers with a big grin, and Patricia lovingly tousles his hair. Since Patrick is wearing a hat, he gets a pat on the shoulder, before she ventures back inside. Patrick suspects that she intends to catch up on all the missed motherly affections whenever it’s appropriate.

The three of them eat, talk, and Patrick enjoys the mundane, yet nonetheless satisfying sense of joy he feels when they’re together like this. He tucks these memories away in the depth of his heart, hoping that even if he might not add to them, they can grow into something beautiful and comforting. Pete retreats to his part of the house for the night, and given that he keeps fumbling with his phone more than usual and the topics brought up today, from therapy to Pete’s family, Patrick can guess what he’s doing.

He gets confirmation when next morning, after breakfast, with Patricia gone for the day to visit her LA friends, Pete hugs him from behind, rests his head on Patrick’s shoulder and whispers: “I didn’t call my mom. But I _ did _ text my sister.”

“Hey, that’s great.” Patrick reaches out to put his hands on Pete’s. “Small steps, right? Did she reply?”

“No, not yet.” Pete sighs. “I wanted to head to the gym… I need to clear my head, and do something other than obsessively look at my phone for a while. Would you mind watching Bowie for me? I won’t be gone for too long, and I walked him already, he shouldn’t be too wild.”

That Pete entrusts him to take care of Bowie all by himself, even if just for a little while, makes Patrick happier than he thought it would. He’s not yet confident enough to take Bowie on a walk all by himself, but, well, small steps, indeed. “Of course, I’ll watch him for you.”

“Thanks, babe.” Patrick can hear the grin in Pete’s voice, and feel the affection in the kiss he pecks to Patrick’s neck before letting go of him. Patrick turns around, and meets Pete’s lips for one more kiss, soft and adoring and everything that makes Patrick’s lovesick heart beat faster.

Much to Patrick’s relief, Bowie behaves well. Perhaps not as well as he would under Pete’s watchful eyes, but still. Patrick allows himself to be a little proud. After playing with the Husky for a while, Bowie ends up laying on the floor, drooling as he chews on his favorite toy, and Patrick sits on the couch, catching up on unanswered emails.

Until suddenly, Bowie’s ears perk up as the intercom announces a visitor.

The unexpected visitor turns out to be Vicky. Bowie is excited and ready to storm off, and it takes some stern words to hold him back. Luckily, Vicky doesn’t have any food or treats on her, which makes it easier to get Bowie to behave.

“Hi. I’m just here to pick up Pete. We were supposed to meet up later, but I got off early and thought I’d swing by.” Vicky looks over Patrick’s shoulder, but of course, there’s no Pete to be seen.

“Pete’s still at the gym,” Patrick explains, then gestures towards the Husky. “I’m watching Bowie for him.”

“Oh. I see...” Vicky sounds surprised. She glances at Bowie, then Patrick.

“Yeah. Pete and I just had our first session with his dog trainer together, and I’m trying my best to learn how to take good care of Bowie…” Patrick feels like he’s babbling, but at least Vicky simply nods, bows down to gently pet the Husky. “I’m sure Pete will be back soon. Uhm… Would you like something to drink? Or eat?”

A few minutes later, Patrick is sitting opposite to Vicky, their drinks and a plate of Patricia’s cookies between them. For the first time, being in Vicky’s presence doesn’t feel awkward.

“So, you’re watching Bowie, hm?” Vicky turns to the Husky, who, upon hearing his name, walks over to her, tongue out and tail wagging in hope for a treat. Preferably, one of the elusive cookies on the table. When all he gets is a pat on the head, Bowie lays down again with a small huff, resorting to chewing on his toy. “He’s feisty, and such a brave little doggie. How are you getting along with him?”

Patrick clears his throat. “Well…”

And then, to Patrick’s surprise, he finds himself holding a perfectly fine conversation with Vicky. Nothing too personal, nothing too deep, they talk a bit about Bowie, Vicky asks some questions about Patrick’s work as a voice actor, and shares a bit about her own work. It’s a nice casual chat that is way more pleasant than any of their previous interactions.

They’re only interrupted when Bowie gets up, tail wagging as he lets out a little howl, and then runs towards the hallway. It is pointless to try and hold the Husky back this time, because Bowie’s need to (loudly) greet Pete is still above whatever authority Patrick has.

“How did it go?” Is the first thing Pete asks. He looks at Patrick, then Bowie, like maybe, the Husky might have an answer as too. “Were you a good boy, Bowie?”

“It went well,” Patrick assures him as Pete bows down to pet his dog, “we played a bit, I fed him, and he didn’t jump up on Vicky or try to steal our food. Really, it was fine.”

Vicky nods, and adds: “Yeah, Bowie was a good boy.”

Pete gives the tail-wagging Bowie one last pat on the head, then turns to Patrick. “Thanks, babe,” he says, and it’s a simple thank you for a simple task, but Patrick knows how much it means to Pete – how much it means for both of them.

And from the corner of his eyes, Patrick thinks he sees the hint of a smile on Vicky’s lips.

The heat of the day has made way for the cool breeze of the night, and even through the light pollution of the city, some stars manage to sparkle bright enough to be seen.

But Patrick only has eyes for the one down on earth, currently stretching out on their bed, looking at him with a brilliant smile as Patrick sits down next to him, gently traces his hands over Pete’s skin. They’re both naked already, and Patrick’s heart aches in a bitter-sweetest way as Pete draws him in for a kiss.

When they part, Patrick sits up a little, his hands back to tracing over Pete’s tattoos. “Anything you have in mind?” Patrick asks him, and Pete nods eagerly.

“Actually, there’s something I’ve been fantasizing about…” Pete chuckles, a little nervous, but clearly excited. It’s a sweet contrast to back when he had solely focused on trying to guess whatever might please his husband. “Well, babe… Would you – would you give me a rimjob?”

Pete looks at him with big eyes and an ever bigger grin, and with shame, Patrick remembers the first time they hooked up, how he’d practically salivated at that thought, only to dismiss it in embarrassment and arrogance.

Probably misinterpreting Patrick’s silence, Pete lets out another nervous chuckle. “Uh, not a good idea?”

“Oh, it’s a _ great _ idea,” Patrick hurries to assure him. “I just… No, it’s not important right now. Please, Pete, tell me more.”

“I promise I’m all nice and clean. But yeah. Well, I imagined you’d start by kissing me...” Pete bats his lashes, and Patrick gets the hint, leans in again to do just that.

“Mmm, yes, go on, please. Ah, I married a man with such a gorgeous, talented mouth,” Pete purrs as Patrick trails down to kiss the line of Pete’s jaw, his Adam’s apple, the curve of his throat, the black ink around his neck. His tongue traces over Pete’s nipples, eliciting an encouraging moan from him, and Patrick feels goosebumps under his fingertips as he slides his hand down to Pete’s dick. It’s growing under his touch, half-hard already by the time Patrick’s mouth is close enough to it for Pete to moan again, and gasp: “Maybe you could…?”

Pete doesn’t need to finish the sentence, because Patrick already licks a stripe over Pete’s length, savoring the taste and the soft sigh it gets him. He shifts his position to sit between Pete’s spread legs, one hand on the back of Pete’s thigh, the other one grabbing his dick. Pete sighs again, sits up a little to watch as Patrick parts his lips, slowly takes Pete’s cock into his mouth. It’s just meant to be a little tease, the appetizer to the main course, but Patrick loves the way Pete looks at him, with such want, such hunger, loves the delectable little noises he makes as Patrick sucks his dick. It’s slow and deliberate, more for show than to get Pete off, given that Pete has asked for other things tonight. When Pete gently gestures him to stop, Patrick withdraws, presses a little kiss to the head of Pete’s hard, aching cock, asks: “What now, babe?”

Pete takes a deep breath, cheeks red from arousal and a last hint of nervousness. “I want you to eat my ass until all I can do is cry out your name.”

These words send a wave of arousal through Patrick’s own body, make him shiver. And fuck, nothing sounds more tempting than doing exactly that.

Pete has never really talked all that much during sex, especially hasn’t said things like these, and oh, Patrick already hopes he will hear more, will get to hear everything Pete wants.

Patrick puts his other hand on the back of Pete’s thigh as well, and Pete lifts his legs a little higher to grant him better access. As long as Pete won’t demand otherwise, Patrick decides to leave the position up to Pete, who seems more comfortable with that as well.

Pete’s ass is as smooth and hairless like the rest of his body, and Patrick wonders, not for the first time, how much time, effort, and pain all this must’ve been. It’s a thought that goes nowhere for now, as Patrick ghosts a kiss over Pete’s inner thighs, then drags his tongue over the puckered skin in between them. He can hear how Pete inhales sharply, and unlike during the blowjob, Pete leans back into the pillows; Patrick, being just as nervous, doesn’t mind.

But he can still hear Pete, the breathy little sighs and loud moans as Patrick licks over his hole, he can taste him, salt and musk and man, can feel Pete’s arousal as he loosens up around Patrick’s tongue. Pete reaches for his cock, starts to stroke himself as Patrick slides his thumbs into Pete’s spit-slick entrance.

“Oh, like this, yes – ah, keep going,” Pete gasps, and Patrick is more than happy to oblige.

Pete doesn’t talk much, but he’s loud like he usually is, and in between his moans, Patrick can hear his name fall from Pete’s lips, each time sending a shiver down his spine. This feels intense and intimate in a way he hasn’t experienced with Pete before, but hopes, wishes desperately he can do again.

Pete arches his back, tugs at his cock once more, and then Patrick can feel him tighten under his tongue and fingers, hears the breathy little “oh,” as Pete comes. Patrick keeps going until Pete falls silent, slowly lowers his legs again. Patrick sits up a little, and Pete sighs, sends Patrick a lazy grin. While Patrick can feel his own dick demanding some attention, Patrick takes a moment to appreciate how gorgeous Pete looks, sated and satisfied and smiling.

“Wait,” Pete whispers when Patrick slides a hand down to tend his own aching hard-on. “C’mere, I wanna...”

Pete trails off, and Patrick lays down, curious what Pete has in mind. Pete leans in for a kiss, hesitates as Patrick tenses up, reflexively covers his own mouth with his hand. Given where his mouth and tongue have just been, Patrick doesn’t really feel comfortable with kissing.

The tension vanishes as Pete lets out his brash laugh, which makes Patrick chuckle, too.

“Let me tell you what else I’ve been thinking of,” Pete says afterwards; he forgoes a kiss on the mouth, but reaches for Patrick’s dick. “Next time,” Pete whispers, and Patrick moans already at the thought that, fuck, yes, there will be a next time, “next time, I want you to eat me out, nice and slow, and then I want more…”

Patrick moans again, both at Pete’s words and the way he’s stroking his dick. He buries his nose in the crook of Pete’s neck, smells sex and sweat as Pete continues to whisper sweet filth into his ear.

Patrick groans out words that don’t make sense, something that’s half arousal, half agreement, and Pete’s name. It’s hot, to hear Pete talk with such confidence, and deep down, Patrick realizes the irony. Perhaps, they’ve come full circle, from Patrick getting off on Pete being nothing but pure fantasy, to both of them finding pleasure and satisfaction in doing what they actually desire, as a simple married couple, not two desperate strangers trying to chase unattainable dreams.

Such poetic thoughts are abandoned for now, because Patrick’s orgasm is burning low in his belly, he’s so damn close, and Pete’s hand feels so good on his dick.

“I want you to finger me open, and then, I want to feel your dick inside of me, want to feel how you fill me up…” Pete doesn’t need to say more, oh, it’s enough for Patrick already, who finally comes with a loud cry, spilling over Pete’s fist.

Afterwards, Pete kisses his forehead, draws Patrick closer for cuddling. Patrick sighs in contentment; he feels sated and happy from his orgasm, and warm and safe in Pete’s embrace.

“So, that was nice,” Pete says after a while. He grins at Patrick, all white teeth and excitement. “Can we do that more often?”

“Of course we can.” Patrick grins back, then adds: “Both, I mean. The rimming, and… Talking more about what we want to do in bed.”

Pete chuckles, plants another gentle kiss to Patrick’s forehead, and combined with how far they’ve come, Patrick takes it as a good sign.

Neither of them is really tired, so instead of sleeping, they end up sitting in bed, eating Andy-approved, low-fat vegan ice cream. As pajamas, Pete is wearing the red plaid shirt he’s been borrowing from Patrick a lot lately – not that Patrick would mind, quite the contrary. Pete didn’t bother to button it up, and Patrick glances at Pete’s chest.

“Did it hurt?” Patrick asks between two spoonfuls of ice cream. “The hair removal, I mean.”

“It was okay. Got it lasered, so less issues with upkeeping. Some spots hurt more than others, but… Well. Smooth and hairless sells better in the business. Most men I’ve been with prefer it, too.” Pete shrugs dismissively, but his voice is a little too sharp, and he looks at Patrick with narrowed eyes.

Patrick holds up his hands in defense. “I’m hardly one to judge. And I don’t care if you have body hair.”

“Well, how fucking _ nice _ of you,” Pete says harshly, and it looks like he wants to say more; instead, he rakes a hand through his hair, lets out a deep breath.

There’s a moment of tense, awkward silence.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that in a condescending way,” Patrick says apologetically, and Pete shakes his head.

“I know.” Pete sounds less harsh now, and he doesn’t look at Patrick with anger. “It’s just… Body issues are a difficult topic for me, still. You can imagine the shit I hear at work, online, and then, I used to go home to Sean or Jeremy, who – well. You know.” He doesn’t elaborate, but Patrick can imagine just what kind of comments Pete got to hear from his piece of shit exes. Not to mention whatever else Pete has to deal with in his professional life, too.

All that brings to mind something else Patrick has been meaning to ask. “Pete, are you happy with your career? Do you enjoy modeling?”

Pete takes a moment to think about the answer, then says, “I like fashion, I like being in front of a camera, and I’m doing pretty well again. But sometimes… I wanna do more, you know? I want to do something with my talent and influence that goes beyond just advertising a product or promoting a brand name. Maybe do something for charity. Or something creative, like designing my own clothes again.”

“You should ask Travie, he’s into this kind of stuff, he knows the right people and I’m sure he’d let you design something for his charity project.” Patrick hesitates, then adds: “Maybe, we can actually work together for real. I don’t have a big following or an influential name in the fashion industry, but I’d be happy to support you. Maybe I could help you with promo material, I could offer music or my voice, or help you out with the financial side of things.”

“You’d really do that for me?” Pete asks, somewhat unsure, and Patrick nods. From everything he’s seen, Pete is pretty good at what he does, he works hard and has a hand for both selling himself (or the products he advertises) and for being creative about it. Actually working with him on a passion project for once sounds like it could be fun.

“Well… Then I’ll get back to you on that offer,” Pete says with a wink. “I haven’t thought it through, I’ll need to talk to Robert and everything, but… I think that could be exciting. And I’ll talk to Travie as well!”

When Pete leans in to give Patrick a kiss, Patrick knows it’s not the ice cream that makes it taste so sweet.

The next day, when Patrick gets home from the studio, he finds Pete in the garden again. Usually, he would be playing with Bowie, but the Husky is content to chew on his favorite toy, and Pete is tapping at his phone, looking both anxious and excited. Patrick greets Pete, who glances up from his phone, before putting it away. He gestures Patrick to sit down next to him. Patrick does, and for a while, neither of them speak. Patrick can feel how the tension seeps back into the silence between them.

“I set up my first appointment with my therapist.” Pete sounds more solemn, a little cautious, even.

“That’s great,” Patrick says, and he means it. “Really, I’m happy for you. Well, therapy isn’t as easy as I wished it to be, but – I think it’ll be really helpful.”

“I’ve been thinking a lot these past weeks, y’know. About the relationships in my life, and how I want to handle them.” Pete reaches out to put his hand on Patrick’s, their wedding bands clanking against each other. The world stops spinning and Patrick’s heart misses a beat; from deep inside his chest, coldness spreads through his body.

“I enjoy all the time we spend together, and I’m happy with all the progress we made so far. I like you, more than just like you, and even though I’m scared of what I’m feeling, despite everything, I – I want to try this. _ Us _. I want to work on our relationship,” Pete says softly, his thumb tracing over the back of Patrick’s hand.

The world starts to spin again, and Patrick’s heart might be ready to burst with happiness. It doesn’t, it keeps beating, and Pete keeps talking.

“But all that said… There are other relationships I need to work on, too. Like the relationship with my family, and also, the relationship with myself. It’s going to take time, it’s not going to be easy.” Pete scoffs, a hint of self-deprecation in his voice as he continues: “I can’t make promises about our future, not here, not now. And I know you have your own issues to work on, and I wouldn’t blame you if all this is too much for you.”

Pete lets out a deep breath. He’s said his part, and now, it’s Patrick’s turn. And Patrick knows that there is only one answer he can give.

“I love you. And even if it’s going to be difficult, I want you, and I want this relationship.”

The way Pete smiles at him upon hearing these words, warm and affectionate and with his amber eyes full of hope – Patrick wants to cherish this moment forever.

“Let’s try this together then, and see where it gets us.”

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much! Your lovely comments are a ray of sunshine in these dark times. <3
> 
> Please stay safe, and I'll see you next time!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, here we are again!
> 
> Thanks to the amazing Snichtes for being such a supportive beta reader, and of course, as always, Mitski supplies the quotes. 
> 
> Enjoy!

It’s evening, the heat of the day is gone, the open windows letting in fresh air into the master bedroom. When Patrick gets out of the bathroom, he finds Pete already laying in bed, wearing one of Patrick’s shirts, and fiddling with his phone. He looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t, just pats the empty space on the mattress next to him. Patrick decides to sit down, and wait.

Pete keeps fiddling with his phone for a while, before he sits up, says, “my sister messaged me back.”

A strange sense of relief and happiness for his husband makes Patrick smile when he hears those words. “Yeah? She did? What did she write?”

A smile tugs at the corner of Pete’s lips, too. “Mhm. Sent some pictures, too. Wait...”

Pete reads Hillary’s message to Patrick – she sounds nice, and like she is genuinely happy to hear from her brother. Pete also shows him some of the photos she sent, pictures of her and her husband, their dogs, some family gathering sans Pete. Hillary’s smile looks just like Pete’s, it’s obvious they’re siblings. There’s also a photo of all of them together: Pete, with bleach-blond hair already, and his parents, next to Hillary in a wedding gown. Everyone, including Pete, looks so _ happy_.

As he looks at the photo, Patrick can’t help but think about their own wedding. Rushed and impersonal, without family or friends. At the time, it had seemed like a sensible decision, it was meant to be just business, after all. He thinks of their own wedding photos: Oh, they _ look _ beautiful, because Hayley is a talented photographer and Pete put on his million-dollar model smile, but behind that empty superficiality is so much ugliness.

Patrick bites his lip. They’re not yet at a point to discuss something like renewing their vows, but when (or _ if _) the topic ever comes up, Patrick wants it to be a better experience. He’s sure Pete does, too. Perhaps, one day…

“Her wedding was the last big family event I attended. Ironically, shortly before Jeremy and I divorced.” The sadness in Pete’s voice is a stark contrast to the big grin of the Pete in the photo. So it’s been quite a while since he’s seen them. Coldness seeps into Patrick’s chest, makes it a little harder to breathe. Not that Pete would want his pity, but he still reaches for Pete’s hand, and Pete doesn’t withdraw from the touch. The shadow of a frown darkens Pete’s expression for a moment, before he closes his eyes, shakes his head.

“I want to visit them again.” Pete hesitates, opens his eyes to look at their hands. He laces their fingers together, sends Patrick a thoughtful look. “Actually… Do you want to come with? Your mom lives in Chicago too, right? We could visit her as well. We should clear our schedules for a few days, leave LA behind for a while. I could use a break.”

No mention of Patrick meeting Pete’s family; Patrick tries not to mind. It might be a bit too early, with Pete just getting back in touch with them. And given Pete’s history with his ex-husbands and Patrick’s own mistakes at the beginning of their marriage, the situation is even more delicate.

“I’d love that,” Patrick still says, because it’s true. That Pete wants Patrick to be with him for the important step of reuniting with his family means a lot. And getting to spend time with Pete sounds great. They haven’t been away together ever since their honeymoon, which hadn’t been amazing, exactly, either.

Pete leans in, brushes a kiss to Patrick’s cheek. Patrick turns his head, meets Pete’s lips for another kiss. “Yes, I’d really love that,” Patrick repeats in the half-whisper that’s loud enough that Pete can still hear him.

“I’d love that, too,” Pete whispers back.

And it’s silly, it’s out of context, but hearing Pete use the word_ love _makes Patrick’s heart ache anyway. With longing, with hope, with a hint of fear. With determination, and the dream that one day, it’ll be in the same sentence as Patrick’s name.

Next morning, they are at the airport, saying goodbye to a very emotional Patricia. She’s hugged Patrick like they haven’t just spent a week together, and squeezed his cheek as she made him promise to call her more often. Pete gets a big hug and sweet words from her as well.

“It was so nice to meet you,” Patricia says afterwards. “You two should come visit me soon!”

Pete nods eagerly. “Oh, we will! My family lives in Chicago, too, so we wanted to drop by anyway.”

“We will visit you,” Patrick confirms, and upon a stern glance from Patricia, hastily adds: “And yes, I’ll call you. I promise.”

“Good,” Patricia says softly, then she draws her son in for one last hug, and to whisper into his ear: “Take good care of yourself – and take good care of Pete, too, okay?”

“I will,” Patrick whispers back, and after one last pat on the back, Patricia lets go of him.

They wait until she’s through security, wave until Patricia is lost among the crowd. Patrick sighs heavily. No matter that he’s an adult in his thirties, seeing his mother leave sends a surge of loneliness through his body. He reminds himself to not let it get this bad ever again. He’ll call her, definitely. He’ll send pictures. Keep her updated. Visit with Pete…

Pete slings an arm around Patrick’s waist, pulls him closer. “It was really nice to meet your mom,” he says, and Patrick knows he means it, and that the tinge of sadness in Pete’s voice has nothing to do with Patricia.

“I’m glad you two got along so well. She really adores you.” Loneliness tugs at Patrick’s heart again, but with much less force this time. He has Pete at his side. They have their friends, they have Bowie, Patrick has Gerard on speed dial for an emergency session (he’s not yet had to fall back on that, but it’s still nice to know he has the option). Whatever the future may hold for them, Patrick feels ready to face it.

And he will definitely call his mom.

“Ah, I can’t wait for us to board a flight to Chicago, too…” Pete chuckles, with a little melancholia, with excitement, and something Patrick can’t quite place. “But for now, let’s go home.”

Patrick smiles to himself, rests his head on Pete’s shoulder. “Yeah. Let’s go home.”

So much is happening in the following weeks.

Pete has his first appointment with his therapist, he has Travie over to discuss a collab for shirt designs (and Patrick knows he’s also putting in a good word for Hayley’s photography). Pete explains that he hopes to land a deal with a bigger brand, that he can design a little more, though the way he enjoys working with Travie, Patrick can sense there might also be more interest from Pete in charity work than just a one-time collab. Pete hasn’t outright said anything yet, he’s busy enough, and it would be a big project, but there’s something, a glint in his eyes, a unique spark to his million-dollar smile.

Patrick works. Patrick continues to see Gerard, continues to talk, and it doesn’t get any easier, but Patrick gets used to it. Patrick makes good on his promise, and calls his mom – after some explaining and Patricia complaining about technology, she eventually manages to FaceTime with Pete and him. Patrick meets with Travie and is glad that he doesn’t need to talk much, that Travie just hugs him, pats his back, and tells him to keep doing his best.

They still see the dog trainer, and Bowie is getting more and more used to Patrick. They have another painting session with Rose, which ends in the predictable chaos, with colorful stains and bright laughter and this time, their hand prints are joined by Bowie’s paw print. They watch movies with subtitles now.

Patrick feels like they have an actual life together, not just a dream world, and it’s the small moments that get him the most – when it’s a quiet afternoon and the two of them talk about everything and nothing. When Bowie greets them with a short howl and tail-wagging and a grin tugs at the corner of Pete’s mouth as Patrick leans in to pet the happy Husky. When they spend the night together and Patrick gets to fall asleep with Pete in his arms…

Today, Patrick is on set, sitting on the floor next to Pete, surrounded by the crew and a handful of adorable puppies.

They’re in the studio for the Buzzfeed interview, one of the last obligations on their schedule before a deserved little break. It’s answering fan questions, all while playing with said puppies who are looking for a good home. In Patrick’s opinion, it’s a little too obvious of a marketing gimmick, but Bob insisted, and Pete is more than excited to have an interview on camera while they get to play with dogs.

“I’m always happy to help,” Pete says just now to the reporter off-camera, “in fact, I wanna do something for charity myself. Keep looking out for that...”

He gives the camera his biggest smile, and the reporter moves on to the next pre-approved fan question. It’s mostly fluff, something to get a good visual. Pete laughs, coos at the puppies around them, and it’s adorable, it’s a great sell, Patrick can see why Bob wanted Pete with him here.

Still, Patrick smiles to himself as he pets the soft fur of the puppy that fell asleep in his lap. It’s just hard to stay cynical about this marketing ploy when the puppies are just so adorable and Pete laughs so sweetly. Besides, it’s a good thing for Pete to drum up some hype for what he is doing with Travie.

“That’s the only way I want to do interviews from now on,” Pete says when they’re done with the questions. They’re staying for some very carefully constructed casual snapshots of the behind the scenes, but Patrick doesn’t even mind. He still has an adorable, if sleepy puppy in his arms, and the way Pete looks at it, Patrick can’t help but ask: “Hey, Pete, I know we have Bowie already, but what would you think of adopting another dog…?”

“I’d love that, babe. But...” Pete buries his nose in the fur of the dog in his arms, and sighs. “Bowie is so high-maintenance already. He’s doing well right now, but I want him to adjust to his new home for a little longer before such a big step.”

That sounds reasonable, and also, like a _ maybe_, perhaps even a cautious _ yes _. Patrick takes it as another reason to be optimistic, happy that they can talk about an actual future together rather than just face uncertainty and unhappiness. It’s not yet serious talk about renewing vows or having children, but it’s progress.

They have to hand the puppies back to the staff (Pete makes them promise to tell him whether they found good homes), but for a moment, Patrick allows himself to indulge in the thought that one day, they could take one of the dogs home. Introduce the new dog to Bowie. Go on walks together. A session with the dog trainer that ends in laughter and everyone being covered in mud. Sit on the couch together with Pete, two dogs demanding to sit with them and be pet as they watch a movie. Pete smiling as two tail-wagging dogs greet them when they come home…

Pete’s voice interrupts his daydream. “Hey. Everything alright?”

“Hm? Oh, yes. I’m good.”Patrick chuckles softly as he takes Pete’s hand into his. “Actually, I’m better than I’ve ever been before.”

It’s late afternoon, the sun spilling the last of the daylight’s copper rays through the windows, painting a golden glow over the bedroom. Neither Patrick nor his husband notice; Pete is on all fours, eyes shut, lips parted for soft moans, as Patrick’s tongue drags over his rim. Patrick has worked two fingers in, and when they find Pete’s prostate, he’s rewarded with a deep groan as Pete arches his back, grinds down on Patrick’s hand in search for more. Patrick drags his tongue over Pete’s hole again, briefly wonders if Pete can hear the deliciously obscene sound of Patrick’s wet tongue on his wet skin.

Pete groans again, another sound that goes straight to Patrick’s dick, makes it twitch with excitement. He rubs over Pete’s prostate again, feels him clench down on his fingers, and fuck, _ fuck _, that feels amazing. Not because it’s some stupid salacious fantasy about a sexy stranger, but because Patrick gets to be intimate with his husband, because of how much Pete trusts him and how much that means after everything they’ve been through.

“Patrick,” he hears Pete pant, “Patrick, wait…”

Patrick leans back a little to brush a kiss over the small of Pete’s back. “What do you want, babe?”

“You.” Pete turns his head so he can glance at Patrick, whispers, “I want you, and I want you to fuck me…”

There’s no doubt in Pete’s voice, no uncertainty in his words, no false smile or faked enthusiasm. Just honest desire, and a sultry smirk tugging at Pete’s lips.

Patrick slowly withdraws his fingers, sits up to reach for the lube in his nightstand. Pete, now on his back, sighs with pleasure as Patrick leans in to kiss him. Not on the mouth, that still feels a little gross to Patrick given he’s just had his tongue up Pete’s ass, but everywhere else; the sharp line of his jaw, the tattooed skin on his collarbones, his nipples. Patrick reaches down, cups Pete’s balls, gives his dick a teasing tug. His own hard-on is poking Pete’s thigh, and as tempting as it would be to touch himself, Patrick is afraid he won’t last.

Instead, he lets his hand trail down further, slides it between Pete’s spread legs. He carefully slips back in a first, then a second finger, relishing in the moans Pete makes when he finds his prostate again.

“You want a third?” Patrick asks, breathlessly.

Pete contemplates that for a moment, shakes his head. “No, this is good. I’m ready – fuck, I’m more than ready. Just go slow.”

Patrick nods, withdraws his fingers to reach for the lube again. This is all so familiar, and yet, an entirely new experience. Patrick fumbles with the lube, unsure for a moment, turns to Pete. “Do you, uhm. Do you want me to wear a condom…?”

“Nah. I like to bareback. In either position.” Pete sends him a wink, adds: “You can come in me if you want, but get me off first. Told you, I like to be spoiled…” Pete says it with another playful wink, and it feels off. Like he’s finally being open about his preferences, but still feels a need to excuse himself for anything he wants that doesn’t align with whatever screwed-up standards Patrick’s predecessors (and, Patrick has to admit, he himself) have set in the past.

Patrick gently shakes his head. “You don’t have to justify what you want.”

For a moment, Pete looks like he wants to protest. He sends Patrick a strange look, hesitates, then concludes: “Actually… Yeah. You’re right, babe. I don’t have to.” He pats the empty mattress next to him, and his furrowed brows are traded for a grin. “So, I told you what I want. Now, are you going to give it to me?”

The tension dissolves, and Patrick can’t help but chuckle a little as he lays down next to Pete, who sends him another grin, then turns to lay on his side. “Want me to spoon you?” Patrick asks, just to be sure, and it earns him a low, lustful chuckle.

“Fuck yes, I want that.”

Pete lifts his leg, rests it on Patrick’s thigh. Patrick puts his hand on Pete’s knee, a gentle touch, a silent question; Pete gets it, shakes his head. “’s fine, I’ll adjust my position if needed. Just…” He trails off, trades the rest of his sentence for a low moan as he grinds closer to Patrick, and the meaning behind that is clear.

Finally, Patrick lines up with Pete’s entrance, the head of his dick pushing against Pete’s rim. Patrick goes slow, his dick sliding into Pete’s tight heat inch by inch. He can feel Pete’s chest rising and falling in his embrace, can smell sex and sweat as he buries his nose in the curve of Pete’s throat, hears Pete moan as he presses soothing kisses to inked skin, then gasp once he’s is all the way in.

Patrick stills, thoughts racing with lust and love and a little nervousness as he waits for Pete to adjust. Pete slides a hand between his legs, traces over where their bodies are connected, and Patrick can feel when the initial overwhelming sensation shifts into pleasure.

Patrick starts slow, just like Pete told him to. They have all the time in the world, or at least, that is what it feels like right now, with the man he loves right here in his arms. 

“Touch me,” Pete demands breathlessly, and Patrick eagerly does.

Pete arches his back, grinds down on Patrick’s cock, and they soon find a good rhythm together. He’s all tight heat around Patrick’s dick, and hard and leaking in Patrick’s hand already.

“You feel so good,” Patrick half-whispers in between planting kisses to Pete’s hot, sweaty skin.

He can feel it when Pete laughs, tightening around Patrick’s cock as he does so. Then, Pete slowly lowers his leg, and Patrick loses his ability to form coherent sentences. It takes all of his willpower not to give into temptation and come now. No, Pete has clearly stated what he wanted, and Patrick is eager to give that to him. He picks up speed, cock slamming into Pete’s prostate with every thrust, earning him all sorts of saccharine sounds from his sweet, sweet husband.

“Ah, Patrick,” he hears Pete pant in between two loud moans, the name rolling of Pete’s tongue colored with arousal and something else, something deeper, “Patrick, fuck, I – I…”

That’s when Pete comes, head tipped back, the faint whisper of Patrick’s name and whatever meaning it may hold traded for the soft little “oh” of his orgasm. He’s clenching down tight, tight, tighter on Patrick’s cock as he fucks him through it, the moment of shared pleasure too much for Patrick to hold back any longer than he already has.

He thinks he’s calling Pete’s name, thinks he might only be moaning, or maybe, both. When Patrick comes, it’s ecstatic, breathtaking, overwhelming, both physically and emotionally, it’s the culmination of every lovesick heartbeat, every touch, every kiss that they shared, the promise of everything they’ve reached so far and might reach in the future.

As the intensity of his orgasm wears off, Patrick slowly lets his dick slide out of Pete. Despite the post-sex mess of sweat and come, Patrick clings closer to his husband, not wanting to let go of the warmth, of the moment of shared bliss. He hears Pete sigh happily, and when he slides his hand up to rest on Pete’s smooth chest, he can feel Pete’s heart beat. It is pure and utter joy and so, so much more, and yet, Patrick only has three simple words to explain, one simple sentence to sum up the tempest raging in his heart.

“Pete, I love you,” Patrick says softly, and despite Patrick priding himself on a semi-successful voice acting career, _ this _ still feels like the most precious, most important thing he’s ever said.

Pete turns around, the glow of a smile illuminating his face. There’s something he wants to say, something on the tip of his tongue; words that haven’t yet formed, can’t yet be released. Instead, he leans in to kiss Patrick, who forgets any objections, just kisses him back, slow and passionate.

“Quick shower, then some cuddles?” Patrick proposes afterwards, wipes over his mouth. “And, uhm. I might brush my teeth.”

Pete laughs, pecks another kiss to Patrick’s frown, before he sits up, answers: “Sounds like a plan.”

Half an hour later, Patrick has Pete in his arms again. Outside, night has taken over, and the glow of the bedside lamp paints a soft light over them. Comfortable silence fills the room, paired with tender touches, gentle kisses, the simple satisfaction of shared intimacy.

Patrick wonders if maybe, this is what they could’ve had all along. Wonders if maybe, it’s too late to worry about that anyway. Wonders if maybe, all of this is still too little, too late. Pete doesn’t say, and Patrick doesn’t ask – it’s not an easy question, and not an easy answer, and perhaps, Pete doesn’t know yet. Patrick wonders if maybe, Gerard can do an emergency session tomorrow.

When Pete cuddles closer to him, Patrick stops the worrying. Right here, right now, with the man he loves in his arms, everything seems possible.

  
  


Pete crosses his arms over his chest, anxiously looks at Patrick. “So, do you like it?”

Patrick pushes his glasses up, stares at Pete’s computer screen. Pete and Travie are about to finalize the shirt designs, it all looks properly polished and pretty now, quite a difference to the early stages of sketches and concept art. It looks good, as far as Patrick can tell, really, really good.

Unsurprisingly, the charity Pete signed up to collaborate with is for animal protection. Not surprising either, even if it has a hint of sadness to it, is that the three designs Pete settled on all depict his own dog in some way. Not necessarily obviously so, two of them are silhouettes, and the third is just a paw print, but Patrick knows the backstory, knows who, in a perhaps ironic twist, modeled for this.

Patrick leans in a little closer, stares at the paw print. It looks familiar, with the messy outline and the mixed shades of colors, and the two human hand prints on each side. When Patrick realizes, his heart skips a beat. “Is that…?”

“It is,” Pete says softly, a small smile in his voice. “It’s us. The handprints and Bowie’s paw print we did together. I just – I liked it a lot, and, well. It does look pretty on a shirt…”

Pete trails off, but he doesn’t need to elaborate, doesn’t need to explain. It’s a gesture that means so much, tells so much of their story, symbolizes so much of what they’ve worked for. Patrick feels too much at once, chest aching with it, wants to say so many things, he doesn’t really manage to say anything.

“Oh, Pete,” is all Patrick manages to stammer, “that’s… That’s wonderful. I love it.”

“We’ll have the prototypes by next week,” Pete says not without pride.

“Good. I’m going to wear it as much as I can.” Patrick pushes his glasses up again, adds: “Really, I will. Uh, if you need any pictures or whatever, I’m in. Just… Put whatever filter makes me look good over it.”

Pete laughs, reaches out to stop Patrick from nervously fiddling with his glasses again. “Aw, babe, you don’t need a filter to look good,” he chirps, and to his surprise, Patrick doesn’t feel the need to protest, he doesn’t object, he doesn’t feel like it’s just one big joke. It’s a strange, but good feeling. Patrick could get used to this.

A bark from Bowie interrupts their moment. “Bowie! Who’s a good boy?” Pete turns to the Husky, leans down to scratch his ears. “The shirts with you are gonna look so adorable! You’re gonna help so many other doggies in need!”

Bowie doesn’t care much (though he doesn’t mind the extra attention), he’s much more interested when Pete mentions going on a walk.

Pete turns back to his husband, grins. “You coming with us?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, “let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!~


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I hope you and all your loved ones are safe and healthy.  
Thanks to snitches for being her usual awesome self and great beta reader!

  
Chicago greets Patrick and his husband with clouds and turbulence, making the last half hour of their 4 hour flight a nauseating experience.

Despite the rough welcome, Patrick is more than happy to be here. Home, in a way, for the both of them, and away from the usual LA trouble for a while.

They booked a very nice hotel, though the main reason for this trip is for Pete to see his family – he’s meeting Hillary for brunch tomorrow, and, the day after, his parents have invited him over.

Patrick also promised his mom a visit, leaving it intentionally vague whether Pete will accompany him or not. This trip is going to be hectic enough already, Patrick won’t press the issue.

Once they finally reach their hotel room, Pete sits down on their luxurious king size bed, takes off his sunglasses, sighs deeply. He looks exhausted, no wonder given the stress of traveling and everything that comes with it. Not to mention, everything that still lies ahead. He hasn’t talked much since they arrived. In fact, he hasn’t really talked much since Joe dropped them off at the airport. They might have a break from LA, but Patrick knows Chicago holds enough challenges for the both of them as well.

While Patrick unpacks, Pete fumbles with his phone, and Patrick hears him sigh again, though with relief this time.

“Ah! Larry finally texted me. Bowie is doing well…” Pete holds out his phone for Patrick to look at the picture the dog sitter sent. The journey would’ve been hard on any dog, and with Bowie already being incredibly uncomfortable in cages and narrow spaces away from Pete, taking him on a trip to Chicago was impossible. The Husky is spending the time with Pete’s trusted dog sitter, but Pete is still nervous. It’s the first time he’s separated from Bowie for a longer period ever since they got the dog back from Jeremy, and while Bowie seems to be doing fine, Pete might need a bit more time to stop worrying and checking his phone every 10 minutes.

“That’s good,” Patrick says as reassuringly as he can as he hands Pete the phone back. “You should text Hillary, tell her we arrived safely.”

“Already did.” Pete hesitates, then much to Patrick’s relief, he puts the phone away. He sprawls out on the bed, pats the empty space on the mattress next to him.

Patrick lays down next to him, and something else comes to mind. “Hey. Is your ear alright?”

Before the flight, Pete mentioned something about altitude and pressure, but he hasn’t said anything since.

“Yeah. I’m good. No pain, nothing.” Absentmindedly, Pete gently traces over his right ear, then rakes his hand through his hair, freshly bleached just before the trip. “When we’re back, I’ll see my ENT specialist anyway. Just to make sure…”

It looks like Pete wants to say more. For now, he doesn’t. This is still a difficult topic for him, and Patrick knows that when Pete wants to open up about it, it has to be on his terms. For now, Pete just sighs again, before he curls up next to Patrick, rests his head on Patrick’s chest. Patrick wishes there was something he could do, something he could say to make it all better, some simple scripted sentences to make the hurt stop. He can’t. He knows he can't. He's had more than one talk about that with Gerard.

So for now, Patrick just presses a gentle kiss to Pete’s bleach-blond hair, and holds him close.

Next day, Pete is out with Hillary, and Patrick is visiting his mom. He is greeted with a big hug and a soft smile on Patricia’s lips as she notices the bouquet of flowers almost squished in the hug.

“Pete helped pick them,” Patrick explains while his mom arranges the flowers in a vase. “He says he’s really sorry he can’t make it today.”

Patrick glances at his phone, but nothing has happened since five minutes ago.

It’s Patrick’s turn to obsessively check his phone to make sure everything is alright. He kind of suspects that a lack of activity from Pete means only good things, means he’s busy catching up with his sister, it’s just… He’s just checking.

“It’s alright, dear. Please tell him not to worry.” Patricia turns to her son with that knowing look in her eyes that says so much without words already. And Patrick is glad that he doesn’t have to talk right now, that his mom just hugs him and tells him it’s fine in a way that almost makes him believe her.

“Don’t worry, babe. My mom doesn’t mind,” is what Patrick repeats to Pete when they meet up in their hotel room, late in the evening. It’s been a long day for the both of them. Pete has declined the offer to go look for a nice place to have dinner, and Patrick can’t say he’s all that disappointed. He’s content with just room service and pajamas for today.

Pete sighs nonetheless. “Your mom is such a sweetheart. Did she like the flowers?”

“She is, and she did,” Patrick says softly. “Hey, tell me about _ your _ day.”

At that, Pete’s face lights up, and the tension vanishes from his posture. Patrick knows Pete’s had a good time with Hillary, Pete eventually texted him and updated his social media and he’s obviously in a great mood despite the exhaustion, but to hear him speak with eagerness and excitement and such love in his voice as he talks about his day with his sister, that’s something different. Something that a few months ago, Pete might not have shared with him at all.

“I’m glad it went so well,” Patrick says once Pete is done. “Really, I’m so happy for you.”

Pete smiles at him, his expression without any nervousness for the first time today, takes his hand. “I’m happy, too.”

Patrick squeezes his hand, smiles back. 

When their lips meet for a sweet kiss, he can't help but moan a little. Pete's former smile turns into a grin, and he gets up to straddle Patrick's lap. For a while, they keep kissing, Pete's hands sliding under Patrick's shirt, Patrick's hands clutching into Pete's hips. Pete is blushing, grinding close to him, still a dirty grin on his pretty lips. Patrick hears Pete gasp as he trails a row of kisses from the sharp line of Pete's jaw down to his collarbones, and Pete's not one to fake his reaction (anymore), but the tight briefs Pete is wearing reveal that his dick isn't as up for it as the rest of Pete might be. Patrick slides his hand down, fingers tracing over the bartskull tattoo, sends Pete a questioning look; Pete shakes his head.

“I think this might be enough for me today,” Pete whispers, half annoyance, half embarrassment. 

“Of course, babe…” Patrick presses another kiss to Pete's cheek; Pete sighs, then pulls away. 

“Hey, it's fine,” Patrick tries to tell him, anxious to handle this wrong, and afraid that Pete could feel bad for setting boundaries. “You know you don't owe me anything.”

“Oh, I _ know _ I don't. That's not it. It's just annoying.” Pete furrows his brows, blushes a little further, half anger, half still embarrassment. “I'm on vacation with my husband, I want to relax, I want to enjoy myself…” He trails off, shrugs like he always does even though they both know it's an empty gesture.

Patrick cups Pete's face in his hands, tries to put as much reassurance in his smile as into his voice. “We still have plenty of time to enjoy ourselves.”

Pete sighs softly as he leans into the touch, whispers: “Can we just watch a movie, and cuddle…?”

That's what they do, the ghostly blue light of the screen illuminating the room as imagination replaces reality for a while. Pete rests his head on Patrick's chest as Patrick gently traces over inked skin, runs his hand through Pete's bleach-blond hair. After a while, Patrick notices that Pete's calm, rhythmic breath is paired with closed eyes; despite the usual insomnia, Pete fell asleep. A sleeping Pete is still a rare sight even all this time into their marriage, his sleep schedule is still all over the place and doesn't always line up with Patrick's (who never has any trouble falling asleep anywhere at any time). 

Patrick pulls him a little closer, and feeling Pete's warmth, hearing the sound of Pete's breathing, guides him into the sweetest dreams.

Next evening, they’re out for deep dish pizza. It’s different to their usual routine of fancy LA bars and expensive restaurants with maybe some Starbucks thrown in once in a while for a change.

“You have no idea how much I missed this!” Pete grins as he looks around, glances at the cozy interior. “Hey babe, can you take a picture before the food arrives?”

It’s not an unusual request from Pete, keeping up his social media is part of his job, after all. And they’ve been stopped twice for photos already; apparently, Pete is pretty popular in his hometown, and seeing a semi-celebrity is probably less common in Chicago than it is in LA. Patrick himself has taken more than one photo of his husband over the course of their marriage to present a more or less perfect facade to the perfect pixelated world of the internet. It’s just Pete in a slightly washed-out t-shirt, in a regular restaurant, and with the dim light of the restaurant, the photo is not even the greatest quality.

Pete interrupts his thoughts. “Did it turn out alright? C’mon, if not, just take another one.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s beautiful, really.” Patrick finds himself smiling at these words as he hands the phone back to Pete.

Pete laughs his charmingly weird laugh, waves his hand. “Oh, now you’re just flattering me, babe.”

“I’m not! It’s just...” Patrick trails off, because there’s no real way to explain it. There are hundreds of beautiful, gorgeous, stunning photos of Pete, no doubt, it’s just that none of them capture this very moment. A bit of everyday joy, a spark of happiness in the curve of Pete’s smile, and Patrick being in love with his husband, hoping that he will get to see Pete smile like that every other day, too.

Patrick thinks love might make him stupidly sentimental. Patrick thinks that might be okay with him. Patrick takes Pete’s hand into his, and while they don’t talk, the way Pete looks at him says more than a thousand words.

They only stop once their absolutely delicious-looking pizza is served.

After the first few bites, Patrick feels comfortable enough to finally ask what's been on his mind all day. “So? How did it go with your family?”

“She wants to meet you,” Pete says between two bites. “My sister, I mean.”

“She wants to meet me,” Patrick repeats a little dumbfounded. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.” Pete pauses, raises a hand to rake through his hair, only to realize it’s stained with pizza grease. Instead, he nervously fumbles with his napkin. “Actually… My parents want to meet you, too.”

That’s a little more unexpected, and Patrick feels his face heat up. It’s not that he doesn't want to meet Pete’s family, it’s just that he might be a little anxious. Maybe, slightly scared. Perhaps, a tiny bit terrified.

“I’d love to meet them,” Patrick answers, and it’s one part of the truth at least. Pete looks at him, brows raised, and Patrick adds: “Really, I want to. I’m just – well, nervous, because, you know…”

Patrick doesn't finish the sentence. Pete nods anyway; his expression softens into a small smile, and he says: “I know. And I know _ you _, and I trust you. My family is nice, I promise. You’ll be fine, babe.”

That’s both reassuring and scary at the same time. Reassuring and hopeful and sweet, because Pete trusts him, and Patrick doesn’t take that for granted anymore. Scary and intimidating, because Patrick knows he absolutely cannot afford to mess this up. If he screws up, there won't be a second chance - and there won't be any Pete anymore. 

“I'll be fine,” Patrick repeats softly, and the way Pete smiles at him gives him enough hope to hold back the nervous laughter caught in his throat.

Pete's parents live in a nice house to match the nice neighborhood.

“You'll be fine,” Pete repeats one last time, before he pecks a kiss to Patrick's lips, which are currently holding back a nervous laughter. 

Patrick doesn't know if he's fine, but at least he's not a complete catastrophe. He talks and smiles and shakes Dale’s and Peter’s hand and tries not to mind that Pete's mother looks at him with the same ice-cold eyes as Vicky did when they first met. He tries not to mind the tension in the smile of Pete's dad. He tries not to mind that Dale doesn't actually offer him to call her Dale, and that he keeps calling her Mrs Wentz. 

Hillary does most of the talking, she's as charismatic and charming as her brother, pleasant to be around and in the way she avoids awkward silence as she guides Patrick through the house and the obligatory small talk. It's made easier not only by Hillary herself, but also by the fact that she brought her two dogs over, a welcome distraction.

Conversation is kept light. Pete's parents ask about Patrick's job, there's the obligatory wide eyes and surprise whenever people realize that they remember his dad, and realize they might've heard Patrick's voice somewhere without knowing it's him. 

They talk about Pete's work, about Bowie, about everything else that's neutral and easy to talk about. Meanwhile, Pete is mostly quiet, he's no doubt had heavier conversations with his parents yesterday. He pets Hillary's dogs, holds Patrick's hand, and half-heartedly protests whenever Dale ruffles his hair (despite the affectionate gesture, Patrick gets the impression she's not too fond of the bleach job). 

“It was nice to meet you,” is what Peter says at the end, because it's a polite phrase. He puts his hand on Pete's shoulder, and Patrick can empathize with the guilty look in his husband's eyes. Patrick's not sure how much he means it - perhaps, “interesting” would be a more befitting word. 

Dale puts her hand on Pete's other shoulder. “Pete told us he'd visit more often. You should come again, too.”

“Thank you. We will be here more often,” Patrick assures her with a smile. “My mother lives here, too.”

Hillary winks at her brother. “I already told Pete - you two should invite me to LA sometimes. For some family time!”

“Sure,” Pete interjects, rolls his eyes despite the affection in his voice, “that's the reason you want to come visit…”

Hillary rolls her eyes back at him, but still joins her parents to hug Pete goodbye, and shake Patrick's hand.

It's a start. A start to _ what _, Patrick doesn't know yet. He has a lot to make up for, and it's not made easier by the shadow of two awful exes looming over their marriage. But Hillary has been so kind, and Pete's parents have extended their hand and invited him in the first place, and for now, Patrick thinks that's the best he can get. Everything else will have to wait - and will have to be earned.

With the biggest obstacles overcome, the days pass by quickly. They're out a lot, sometimes, together. They visit Patricia as well, who's more than happy to see Pete again. Much to Pete's relief, Bowie is still doing well back home. They talk to Joe, who confirms that nothing noteworthy has happened around the house, and who lets Rose babble all the newest words she knows now into the phone. Travie sends them pictures of the shirts and prints, ready to be shipped. They spend more time together than on their honeymoon, Patrick can't help but notice.

And right now, they're spending their time together in bed, naked already, and Pete is ghosting kisses over Patrick's neck, his hand tracing over Patrick's thigh. He's spooning Patrick, something Patrick has wanted to try for a while now, the head of Pete's hard cock nudging his entrance. 

Coordinating this position is more difficult than Patrick expected, and while Pete is averagely sized at best, he still feels like a lot to take. Pete goes slow, careful as always when he bottoms out; he has to pause halfway in, presses more kisses to the curve of Patrick's shoulder as Patrick tries to adjust.

“You okay?” Pete whispers, his fingers tracing soothing circles over Patrick's sweaty skin. 

“I just needed a moment,” Patrick whispers back, “I'm good, go on…”

Pete does, still as attentive and gentle as he always is, stills once he's all the way in. Patrick hears him moan softly, feels Pete's hand sliding up to his chest, pulling him even closer.

They soon find a good rhythm, and Patrick likes this, laying in his husband's arms, being so close to Pete in every way as Pete's dick fills him up perfectly. Pete is loud, he always is, moaning right into Patrick's ear, the sweetest symphony; and his hand on Patrick's dick feels as heavenly as always.

“Wait,” Patrick still urges him after a while, “I wanna try…” 

Patrick lowers his leg, like Pete did, lets out a sharp breath as he does so - it feels tighter, more intense, but on the verge of being uncomfortable. Behind him, Pete groans with pleasure, hands clutching into Patrick's hips.

“Move,” Patrick urges him, and Pete does, gives a few small thrusts, only to stop when Patrick shudders and lets out another sharp breath. 

“Okay, well, that's a bit too much for me,” Patrick admits through gritted teeth, relieved when he hears Pete chuckle, feels him pressing another kiss to his neck. 

Pete waits as Patrick lifts his leg again, squirms a little until the uncomfortableness is replaced by arousal once more. “Everything alright? We can always just change positions.”

“It's fine like that,” Patrick assures him. “Go on, please…”

Pete leans in to whisper: “Mhm… But I want you to come first…”

Whatever Patrick wants to say is lost, because Pete manages to angle his thrusts just right, dick slamming into Patrick's prostate, making coherent thoughts or speech impossible. Fuck, Pete feels so good, and he's hitting just the right places inside of him, and then Pete's hand slides back down to Patrick's dick. The smell of sex and sweat, the shared heat of arousal, the lustful little moans each time Pete slams into him, mixed with Patrick's own groans - Patrick feels the dawn of his orgasm low in his belly, and it's too tempting to give in. 

Pete fucks him through it, and Patrick doesn't want him to have to pull out, but his body protests the generous thought. 

“Sorry. I might need more practice,” Patrick mumbles as Pete lets his still hard dick slide out of him.

Pete chuckles, low and dirty. “Oh, I'm sure we can arrange that…”

With that, he pulls Patrick closer again, buries his face in the curve of Patrick's throat. He hears Pete whisper his name, breathlessly and with a sweetness of words Pete might yet hold back, before the little choked-back “oh” of Pete's own orgasm, painting hot white streaks over the small of Patrick's back.

Patrick feels a little gross, being all sweaty and with streaks of cum drying on his stomach and back, but he can't bring himself to be bothered enough to leave the comfort of Pete's embrace. 

It's Pete who eventually gets up, with reluctance; and he's back soon after, with one of the hotel's nice and soft white washcloths in his hands. Usually, Patrick would prefer a shower, and feels weird to be cared for like this, a bit difficult to accept, even. Once more, he can't bring himself to feel bothered.

“You and I need a _ real _ vacation,” Pete says when he's done and laying next to Patrick again, fingers tracing invisible patterns over Patrick's chest. “Not visiting family, nothing as shitty as our honeymoon, just… just you and I.”

“That sounds amazing. Though… I'm sorry about the awful honeymoon,” Patrick says in a small voice. “And also, sorry about our wedding. I know it wasn't what you wanted…”

Pete waves his hand, self-deprecation on the tip of his tongue as he speaks. “Yeah. Back then, I wanted to turn it into a social event, into something public, something glamorous to sell like my marriages with Sean or Jeremy, and - no. Actually, I don't want to get married like that ever again. I'd prefer something small, maybe just you and me and the friends and family we love. I'd want it to be private, and I'd want it to be about our love, about _ us _.”

It's the first time Pete has ever said anything like this, and while he hasn't explicitly mentioned renewing vows, it's far more honest and with far more feeling than when Pete planned their actual wedding.

“That sounds beautiful,” Patrick answers, cautious but affectionate; Pete doesn't elaborate, not here, not now, but Patrick has a glimmer of hope, feeding the fire in his heart.

Silence settles between them again, thoughtful, but not as heavy as before. Pete takes Patrick’s hand, thumb carefully tracing over Patrick's wedding band. 

“We've come a long way,” Pete says softly. “I didn't always think we would, but… we did.” Pete's pretty eyes are looking at Patrick with fondness and something Patrick doesn't dare to name yet. “It took us quite a while to get here - well, it took me almost three husbands. But I like what we have now. I like it a lot.”

Patrick smiles at him, leans in to peck a kiss to Pete's lips. “So do I.”

And when Pete kisses him back, it's all the answer Patrick needs for now.

Joe picks them up from the airport, offers all the updates on their home in LA - which is that everything is in order, Marie is well, Rose has been asking for Pete and mostly for his dog. She's a big fan of Bowie, who so far has been nothing but patient and gentle with her (way more than with Patrick, who's had to work harder for Bowie's respect).

And Bowie is who they pick up next, before they even get home - Pete insisted. Bowie looks as happy as ever, no wonder, he's equally excited whether he sees Pete after seven hours or seven days away. Even Patrick gets some affection from the Husky.

With everyone home, luggage unpacked, work schedules loaded up again, everything is both back to normal, and yet not the same as before. Pete is restless the first night home, and when Patrick sees the exhaustion on his face in the morning, he knows Pete hasn't slept.

“Would you watch Bowie for me?” Pete asks as Patrick walks into the kitchen. “I have my doctors appointment, you know…”

Ah, right, Patrick remembers Pete mentioned that. “Sure, I'll watch him.”

“Hey, babe...” Pete clears his throat, and there's an expression on his face that Patrick can’t quite read, as well as something heavy in his voice. He rakes his hand through his hair, sighs, but then says: “Remember the big fight we had? Actually, that’s where I was going that day. I saw my ENT specialist.”

As unexpected as that came up, it makes sense. It makes a lot of sense, in a frightening way. Back then, Pete had been trying to hide it, had tried to gloss over any troubles, had tried to not let Patrick see any struggles. Pete hadn’t wanted him to know that he was hard of hearing, about the vertigo and other complications, about _ any _ of it.

Well, and Patrick has to admit, when he thinks back to his own behavior, he’s not at all surprised Pete wasn’t willing to share such an intimate, vulnerable fact with his husband.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick stutters, and he wants to say more, but Pete just shakes his head.

“I know you are.” 

Patrick waits as Pete struggles for words. He reaches out for Pete’s hand, only for Pete to shake his head.

“Do you know why I have so much trouble with my ear in the first place?” Pete doesn't look at him when he asks. “I mean - you can probably guess. You've seen the picture, right? _ Everyone _ saw it.”

Of all the many pictures of Pete there are, Patrick knows exactly which one he means. He's seen it indeed, the leaked police photo after Pete's first husband assaulted him, he remembers the brief spark of pity and the short public dispute about domestic violence which had soon been silenced in favor of more glamorous and less sad news, as well as to make room for the slander on Pete's divorce.

“I know,” Patrick stammers, “but - I didn't know…”

Pete crosses his arms over his chest, looks at him with narrowed eyes. “Well. Now you do.” 

It looks like Pete is both incredibly uncomfortable taking about this, and yet, wants to speak up. Patrick doesn't dare to imagine what he might be going through right now, and when Pete gestures to him to stay silent, that's what Patrick does.

“I think we made a lot of progress, and I'm doing well in therapy.” Pete's words sound carefully chosen, like he's thought about this, and exactly what to say beforehand. This too has been on his mind for a while. “But I think there are some things, both in our past and regarding our future, that I want us to address together. I've thought about it a lot, and… are you still up for couples therapy?”

It takes Patrick a moment to process what Pete just asked of him. Its a big sign of trust that Pete wants to open up like this to him, and it's asking for Patrick to trust him as well, given it will require a lot from Patrick too. 

But it's not just about the past, it's about their future, too. A future that Pete wants to share with him, whatever it may entail. It's about a future with the man Patrick loves, and so there is only one answer to give.

“Of course I am. I love you, Pete, and I meant what I said - I'm willing to work on myself, and our relationship.”

“Good. I'm so happy to hear that, because, well…” A small smile spreads over Pete's face, a faint ray of sunshine. He beckons Patrick to come closer, takes his hands into his and leans in to whisper: “Because I might just be falling in love with you, too.”

And when Pete underlined the sweetest words with the sweetest kiss, Patrick thinks he might just be the luckiest man alive.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!~  
We are close to the end - only a few chapters left to see if the boys' hard work will pay off...


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, and welcome back!
> 
> It's been a stressful time for me with full-time work, exams, and all the other bullshti life throws at me. Thanfkully, there's only one more exam I need to pass this year (wish me luck!), and then I hope 2020 might show some mercy on me - on all of us. 
> 
> Thanks so much to Snitches for being an awesome beta reader and an awesome friend!

Something new is now part of their routine.

Once a week, they meet with Cathy, a therapist specialising in couples counseling. They found her together. She’s not like Gerard, has less of the chaotic genius energy, but the dynamic between them works out well.

Patrick talks about everything he never thought he needed (or wanted) to talk about, and Pete finally tells the stories that other people told on his behalf (truthfully or twisted) for so long. Between the past and the present and a possible future, there’s more than enough to discuss.

And then, when they’re alone at night, laying in each other’s arms, or out for a walk with Bowie, or whenever else Patrick feels the words tugging at his heart, he says _ I love you _ to Pete, watches his face light up with a smile whenever he does. Pete hasn’t said the word love again, but Patrick can see it in his eyes, taste it on his lips, feel it in Pete’s touch.

There’s something else important that Pete says one afternoon, as they’re sitting in the garden together after some playtime with Bowie. The Husky is laying at their feet now, exhausted and happy to chew on his favorite toy.

“Hey, babe...” Pete is smiling now, flashing a bright grin that can barely contain his excitement. “Remember Sarah, the vet on set from the Buzzfeed interview? I asked her to keep in touch, update me on the puppies?”

It’s been a while, but Patrick remembers. He nods, a little unsure where this is going. “Sure. And if I remember correctly, all the puppies got adopted, right?”

“Right. Right! They were. But...”

Of course, there’s a but, and suddenly, Patrick feels excited too as realization dawns on him.

“But, we kept in touch, mostly for business, to see if she wanted to help with Travie’s project, too, and… Well. And she told me, they just took in this Husky puppy – 8 months, he’s perfectly healthy, just… Turns out, the owner liked the idea of a Husky, but not actually owning one. That’s actually a common problem, did you know that? Lots of people adopt Huskies because they’re so gorgeous, and then they can’t keep up with them. Too wild, too much energy, lots of work and effort – I mean, you know how Huskies are.” Pete chuckles nervously, gestures vaguely towards Bowie. He’s rambling, although it’s obvious where this conversation is going, and what Pete _ really _ wants to ask.

“I know how Huskies are,” Patrick answers carefully. “And I like Bowie very much.”

“She asked me if we wanted to adopt him. Since we’re looking to adopt another dog, and since we’re experienced with Huskies. But I don’t want to force this on you.” Pete takes a deep breath, rakes a hand through his bleached hair. “Huskies are… they are a lot. Either way, adopting a dog is a big step, and this time, I want to do it right. I want us to do this together.”

This puppy is perhaps one of the biggest things Pete has asked for yet. Not because it’s expensive, exclusive, or extravagant, no. Because it’s a wish they both share, and it’s a huge responsibility, and they’re doing this _ together _ . Pete wants to do this, to raise the dog with _ him_, Patrick, and Patrick knows what and how much that means to Pete – and to Patrick himself, heart drunk with love, ah, it means the world.

Pete raises his hand to rake through his hair again, stops halfway through to sigh, and reaches for Patrick’s hand instead. The gold of his wedding band gleams in the bright light of the LA sun, but Patrick only has eyes for Pete’s precious smile.

“Yes, I want that, too,” Patrick answers as he laces their fingers together. “I want to do this with you. We should meet the puppy, and see if we can be his new family.”

“Oh, babe, that’s…!” A moment later, Patrick has a happy Pete in his arms, laughing with eagerness and excitement until his lips find Patrick’s for a sloppy but sweet kiss. When they part, Pete whispers: “Sarah said he's very sociable, and Bowie usually gets along well with other dogs. It’ll need some time, but I am sure it will work out.” Pete turns to Bowie, coos: “Isn’t that right, Bowie? Would you like to have a little friend?”

While Bowie might not exactly understand Pete’s words, he definitely understands that Pete is excited and that something good is happening. He lets out a short howl, tail wagging in sympathy (and perhaps in hopes of getting a treat) and Pete laughs again, reaching out to scratch the Husky’s ears.

Patrick watches them, and another question comes to mind. “You said a lot of Huskies end up in shelters. Is that how you got Bowie?”

“No. Jeremy got him from a breeder. Thankfully, he at least let me choose one with a good reputation.” Pete scoffs, looks away, his hand absent-mindedly tracing over Bowie’s white fur. “Jeremy said he already had a hand-me-down husband, and that he didn’t need a hand-me-down dog.”

Patrick grimaces at these words, once again (and certainly, he fears, not for the last time) appalled by Pete’s ex. “That’s awful. _ You _ didn’t need an asshole like _ him _.”

Pete only shrugs, like he does so often when uncomfortable topics come up. “That’s true. I really didn’t,” he mumbles nonetheless, and a small smile spreads over his face.

Pete pets Bowie one last time before he turns to Patrick again. “Let’s give this puppy a good new home.”

The puppy, turns out, is already pretty big. And also, very excited for his new home.

They settle on the name Teddy, because really, it fits the little Husky all-too well. Not that Bowie isn’t affectionate, even more so now that he’s gotten used to his new home, but as they soon realize Teddy is basically a snugly Labrador trapped in a Husky’s body. He’s cozied up to Bowie in no time, who thankfully gets along better than expected with the new dog, and unsurprisingly it has taken the Husky puppy about 3 seconds to conquer both Pete’s and Patrick’s hearts.

Pete’s social media is full of puppy pictures (and thanks to Ryan, so is Patrick’s). There’s lots of dog snaps, shots from work, and these days, whenever Pete posts a picture of the two of them together, Patrick doesn’t feel like it’s a mere dream, or only an illusion to sell a terrible lie.

There’s also dog training classes, trying to keep two Huskies entertained (and trying to have them behave), and there’s dog hair, so much dog hair.

Even with all the stress, Patrick thinks it’s worth it, oh, it’s absolutely worth it whenever he sees the two happy dogs, and the very happy husband at his side.

Despite Teddy’s majestic and somewhat intimidating appearance, he really is one of the most gentle and loving dogs, and he’s the happiest when he’s either playing or cuddling up to whomever is currently available.

Right now, the person available is Joe, who’s been petting Teddy first, before Bowie decided he too needs attention. “Really, I’m glad it worked out,” he says as the two Huskies cozy up to him. “The two of them are still getting along well, aren’t they?”

“Teddy is doing great, and Bowie _ adores _ him. He’s learning fast, too, our dog trainer said Teddy’s a smart little puppy,” Pete answers him. Rose is sitting next to him and Patrick, swinging her legs impatiently as they try their best to to re-do her braids. “It took me a few tries finding the right husband, but I guess I have more luck with my dogs.”

Joe laughs, and Patrick thinks Joe makes a joke at his expense, but Patrick can’t bring himself to be bothered. It’s a casual remark, but there’s something tender in Pete’s voice, something that makes Patrick smile, especially when Pete leans in to brush a kiss to his cheek.

“All done, sweetie,” Pete announces a moment later, proudly gesturing towards Rose’s hair. Patrick has to admit, it’s not as pretty and neat as when Marie or Joe do it, and the braid he did looks messier than Pete’s. Thankfully, Rose has bigger things to worry about – like the two dogs she’s been wanting to pet the whole time. She’s had some playtime with the puppy, and although she’s still a little confused why a dog is called Teddy, she adores him just as much as Bowie. They don’t ever let her be with the dogs unsupervised, but so far, both Bowie and Teddy have been nothing but gentle with her. It’s been important to Pete to get both Huskies used to interacting with children, and he’s reasoned it’s because Rose is around so much.

Though Patrick suspects that Pete hopes that Rose won’t be the only child to play with their two Huskies – something Patrick finds himself hoping as well. The thought makes him smile, makes him reach out to caress Rose’s cheek, tuck a stray strand of hair that didn’t make it into the braid behind her ear before she gets up, and half-runs, half-stumbles over to Joe. For a moment, he allows himself to indulge in the thought that maybe, one day – oh, one day…

The daydream is interrupted by Joe. “Hey, Pete? Can she give the dogs a treat?”

Pete cocks his head to the right. “Hm? Sorry, what was that?”

Joe turns around, and Patrick recognizes the look on his face. The awkwardness, the bad conscience. “I – uhm, I asked if Rose could give them a treat,” Joe stutters, and Patrick recognizes the way he talks, loud and stilted and a little too slow. He recognizes the hint of awkwardness in Pete’s eyes, how his shoulders tense up for a moment, and he recognizes the unspoken apology in Joe’s eyes.

“A treat!” Rose repeats as she claps her hands, giggles. “Uncle Pete, please?”

“Yeah, sure you can, sweetie,” Pete says softly. “Wait, Uncle Patrick and I are coming over to help you…”

It’s later that day, when Patrick is alone with his husband, that he brings it up again. Pete is sitting cross-legged on their bed, staring at his phone until Patrick exits the bathroom.

“You talked to Joe about your hearing loss?” Patrick asks as he sits down on his side of the bed, sleep the furthest thing from his mind.

Pete hesitates, but then simply nods as he puts his phone away. “Yeah. I mean, he was kinda suspecting something like that anyway, and I just… Grew tired of hiding, you know? So I told Joe I’m hard of hearing. Told Marie as well.”

“That’s good,” Patrick says softly, “that’s brave of you.”

“_ Brave? _ ” Pete scoffs, and Patrick can hear the anger, the sense of self-deprecation he has heard in Pete’s voice too often. There’s more on the tip of his tongue, fear and frustration and old fights; Pete takes a deep breath instead, rakes a hand through his hair. When Patrick wants to speak up, Pete shakes his head. “I shouldn’t be ashamed of it. I don’t _ want _ to be ashamed, it’s just… It’s difficult. It’s been almost ten years, and it’s _ still _ difficult. And you know what bothers me the most? _ Sean _ has never even spent a day in jail, _ he’s _ been off probation for five years now, _ he’s _ doing record sales and winning awards despite him assaulting two more people, _ he _ doesn’t give a shit, and neither does anyone else, and it’s all just not fucking fair!”

The anger has mostly vanished, and instead, Pete sounds exhausted when he adds: “Sometimes, I can’t decide what’s worse. The people who forgot, or the people who remember and _ still _ let people like Sean have a career.”

“You’re right. It’s not fair at all, and I’m sorry,” Patrick says after a while, and his words feel clumsy and helpless and on his tongue. “Pete, if there’s anything I can do – if you want to talk...”

“I want to bring this up with Cathy next time we see her,” Pete whispers, and Patrick nods, because there’s nothing else he can do, and nothing sensible to say comes to mind.

Pete sighs, pats the empty space on the mattress next to him. Patrick slides over, slings his arms around him and Pete sighs once more, this time, with less sadness; he buries his head on the curve of Patrick’s shoulder. “The world is full of awful, abusive assholes,” he mumbles. “Just… I need to know you’ll never work with _ this _ particular asshole. That _ you _ won’t support him.”

For a second, Patrick wants to argue that luckily, it’s pretty unlikely Sean and he will ever cross paths. There are very little opportunities given Sean is a still-popular rap artist and Patrick is the half-forgotten kid of a dead country artist, and enjoys a semi-successful career mostly behind the scenes. But it’s about more than merely work, or even just Sean, it’s a matter of principle.

“I won’t. I’ll never,” Patrick answers him, and he means it.

Pete nods, and for a while, silence settles between them. “Hey. I think I’ll take the dogs for a little night walk,” Pete says eventually; it’s something he does sometimes when he can’t sleep, or wants to clear his thoughts. Patrick offers to accompany him, though not surprisingly, Pete declines. Patrick watches him leave and sighs to himself.

And Patrick doesn’t see him until the morning, when he meets Pete in the kitchen. Pete’s tapping at his phone, his breakfast still in front of him. He’s barely eaten, mostly just picked his food apart like he does whenever he’s nervous.

“Hey. Are you okay?” Patrick asks, concerned. Startled when he’s torn out of his thoughts, Pete puts the phone away and turns to him, his expression torn between surprise and bliss and something Patrick can’t really make out.

“I just talked to Hillary,” Pete says softly, his voice quivering, “she’s – actually, she’s four months pregnant.”

That’s not what Patrick expected to hear at all. “Wait, really?” He stammers, as the meaning of Pete’s words settles in. “Oh my God, what? That’s – that’s amazing...!”

Patrick wants to say more, but Pete hugs him with such force that they both stumble backwards, and both almost lose their balance. Patrick can stop them from tumbling to the ground, but Pete only laughs, loud and joyful. “Babe, I’m going to be an uncle!”

“And I’m sure you’re going to be an amazing uncle.” With a small laugh, Patrick pulls him closer, pecks a kiss to the corner of Pete’s grin. Pete chuckles, and leans in to return the kiss.

When they part, he looks at Patrick with big eyes, holding the same warmth as his bright-white smile. “Actually – _ we _ are going to be uncles. Isn’t that exciting?!”

“_ We _, huh,” Patrick repeats softly.

“And you’re right,” Pete says with a big grin. “_ We _ are going to be _ amazing _ uncles.”

  
  


Pete is sitting in Patrick’s lap, sighing with pleasure as Patrick trails his hand down the valley of his spine, the small of his back, down to his ass. He’s all moans and goosebumps under Patrick’s touch, especially when Patrick’s hand finds Pete’s dick, still spit-wet from foreplay. They’ve both been hard for a while, and Patrick wipes away a drop of pre-cum from the velvet-smooth head of Pete’s dick.

They’re trying something new today – well, not entirely new, it’s something Pete had suggested previously. What’s new is that today, it’s not about Pete trying to maintain the facade of the adventurous and lascivious LA trophy husband. Thanks to a lot of factors, from working hard and establishing trust to their recent session with Cathy, talks about sex they have these days are quite different than they used to be.

That’s why Pete had sat him down for a slightly awkward but nonetheless honest conversation involving words and the content of a small box.

Patrick had expected Pete’s taste in sex toys to be a bit more extravagant given that Pete isn’t one to shy away from bold fashion choices, but the plug Pete got himself is simple, black silicone, moderately sized, and currently already sitting snug between Pete’s cheeks.

“Tell me what you want, babe,” Patrick hums into Pete’s left ear, and Pete chuckles with excitement.

“Mmm, I wanna get off _ now _, before we fuck,” Pete hums back, grinning, and grinding closer to him.

Patrick takes a moment to teasingly tug Pete’s dick, making him groan in anticipation. “Oh, I think I can do that…”

Pete sends him a sultry look through half-veiled amber eyes as he slowly gets up, and lays down on his back. A moment later, Patrick is towering over him, connecting their lips for a passionate kiss, until Patrick pulls away again to ask: “How about I finish that blowjob, hm?”

“Well, that would be just wonderful…” Pete chuckles, low and dark and dirty, before moaning at the loss of Patrick’s hand on his dick. Instead, Patrick leaves a trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses down from Pete’s collarbones, over his nipples, abs, until his lips meet the head of Pete’s dick. Pete sits up a little, like he always does, to watch Patrick take his dick into his mouth. Patrick smiles at him, licks a stripe over Pete’s aching length, over his balls, down his cleft and over his stretched rim, being held open by the plug.

That gets him a loud moan from Pete, and when Patrick wants to withdraw to get back to the promised blowjob, Pete whispers: “Hey, getting this plug in took us quite a bit of time and effort, so you better enjoy the view.”

Well, Patrick doesn’t have to be asked twice. He trails his tongue over Pete’s rim once more, shuddering with delight at the delicious sounds Pete makes as he continues. He’s eaten Pete out before, but there’s a twist today with the black base of the plug reminding Patrick of what happened before (and what is about to come), and as always, Pete is just so damn responsive to his touches, tongue, fingers, it sends a shiver down Patrick’s spine. He reaches for Pete’s cock again, and Pete arches into the touch, moans something that sounds like “fuck, yes” and Patrick’s name and a little “oh” as he comes all over his stomach and Patrick’s hand.

Patrick sits up, leans in to peck a kiss to the corner of Pete’s parted lips. Eager for release, he reaches for his own neglected cock, stopped only when Pete whispers: “Ah, wait, let me, babe…”

Instead of words, Patrick answers with a gasp as Pete’s fingers close around his cock. A gentle hand guides his lips back to meet Pete’s, and he moans Pete’s name in between kisses as he comes soon after.

Pete holds out his arm, and Patrick rests his head on Pete’s chest.

“Give me ten minutes, babe,” Pete purrs as pulls Patrick closer. “Okay, or maybe, a bit longer...”

Patrick laughs, wraps his arm around Pete’s waist. “Yeah. I’ll need a moment as well…”

For a while, they remain silent. Patrick can feel Pete’s chest rise and fall as Pete breathes, can hear Pete’s heartbeat, can feel the warmth of his skin. Pete lets out a happy sigh, his hand trailing over Patrick’s back. Patrick loves these moments, when they’re both satisfied and sweaty and yet, their appetite for each other still not sated. It’s not even about sex, it’s just so wonderful to share this kind of intimacy with Pete.

Slowly, Patrick traces over Pete’s nipples, down his abs over to the weird bat tattoo on his groin; Pete’s dick is still soft, but he can hear the grin on Pete’s lips when he says: “Come here and kiss me...”

There’s hunger in the way Pete kisses him, an urgency to the way he holds onto Patrick, and lust in the way he moans when once more, Patrick lips trail down to his nipples, hard under his tongue. He can feel his own dick twitch in anticipation already. Pete is quieter now, the warmth of the afterglow still painting his cheeks red and making him sigh softly as Patrick’s mouth maps out every inch of his body. When he finds himself between Pete’s legs again, Pete’s dick is half-hard already, and only growing harder once Patrick takes it back into his mouth.

It doesn’t take long until he hears Pete pant: “Fuck, you gotta – gotta stop, or I’ll come again...”

Patrick withdraws his mouth, sits up a little to look Pete in the eye. “If you want…?”

Before he can finish the question, Pete shakes his head. “Nah. Right now, I’d really like your dick inside of me instead. So, would you lend me a hand?”

At Pete’s request, Patrick puts his hand between his spread legs, tracing over the base of the plug; he watches as the plug stretches Pete open, open, open and then it’s out, leaving Pete shuddering at the loss.

“You good? Do you need more prep?”

“Oh, more than just good,” Pete answers with a laugh, before pointing to the bottle of lube on the nightstand. “Really, I’m fine. Your cock needs some lube though.”

Patrick hurries to slick himself up. Pete holds out his arms, beckons him closer, moans softly when the head of Patrick’s dick nudges at his entrance. Patrick bottoms out slowly, stops once he’s all the way in, waits for Pete to adjust.

“The plug was fun, but your dick feels nicer,” Pete whispers after a moment, and they both laugh a little.

The pace they set is slower this time. It feels intense, in a different way, the thrum of the afterglow and the dawn of the next orgasm making for an exquisite experience. Neither of them is going to last long, Patrick knows that already.

Pete wraps his legs around Patrick’s waist, gasps a little as he does so, and groans when with the next thrust, Patrick’s dick finds his prostate. Patrick reaches for Pete’s dick, but this time, Pete bats his hand away, his own fingers curling around his aching hard-on instead.

Patrick savors every moment, every moan, every little touch and kiss every whispered word of want and affection that they share.

Pete is all tight heat around Patrick’s cock, all moans and gasps adorned by the breathy little “oh” as he spills all over his hand and stomach. It doesn’t take long for Patrick to follow, coming deep inside of him, Pete’s name on his lips, only to be kissed away by Pete himself.

Even though he feels too hot and sweaty, Patrick finds himself back in Pete’s embrace, can’t be bothered to untangle himself from the comfort of Pete’s arms. He can smell the sex and sweat on Pete’s smooth skin, he feels the goosebumps under his feather-light touches, hears the soft, appreciative sigh from Pete as they both enjoy the shared second afterglow.

After a while, Pete yawns, lets go of Patrick to stretch his limbs. “Can you deal with the mess, please?” Pete asks, suppressing another yawn. “’m tired and sore and I don’t feel like moving.”

Patrick chuckles, leans in to peck a kiss to Pete’s forehead, before he gets up to follow Pete’s request. He cleans the toy in the bathroom sink, and gets a soft washcloth for Pete.

It’s late at night when the two of them are back in bed, sated and tired and ready for the sweet embrace of sleep. Patrick is spooning his husband, and Pete isn’t playing with his phone or nervously tossing and turning or doing anything else he does when insomnia triumphs over tiredness, so Patrick is cautiously optimistic that Pete can get some rest tonight. He’s breathing evenly, sighs as Patrick kisses his naked shoulder, and when Patrick reaches for Pete’s hand, Pete laces their fingers together.

Outside, the city is awake and thriving, the light pollution making it difficult to spot the stars way up in the firmament. But Patrick knows which one of them is shining the brightest, who of them is the most precious, the one he doesn’t ever want to miss again.

“I love you,” Patrick whispers sleepily.

To his surprise, Pete slowly turns around to him, and there’s a weight to his silence that makes Patrick open his eyes again.

Pete leans in closer, his breath ghosting over Patrick’s skin, his hand still holding Patrick’s as he whispers back the simple, yet so wonderful words.

“I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, everyone! <3
> 
> There actually are a lot of Huskies ending up in shelters thanks to ill-informed and/or irresponsible pet owners. It's been nice to at least give a fictional one a good home.  
Also, Pete's first ex is based on a certain celebrity that actually exists and pretty much has the same story - beat up his girlfreend (without ever spending day in jail for it, really), assaulting multiple people, etc and all while being a very successful artist with lots of people ready to defend him or just plain ignore/excuse what he did. Sadly, the entertainment industry is full of awful people. 
> 
> But, on a lighter note: These boys have made a lot of progress - is it enough to save thier marriage? What do you think?  
There are 2 chapters left, so we will soon find it. It does look good! Right? 
> 
> See you all next chapter!~


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